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A RECKLESS PURITAN 


MRS. VICTOR RICKARD 


I 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


BY 

/ 

MRS. VICTORS, RICKARD ' 

AUTHOR OF “CATHY ROSSITER,” “YOUNG MR. GIBBS,” “THE FIRE 
OF GREEN BOUGHS,” “THE HOUSE OF COURAGE,” ETC. 


1,1 > 


NEW 



YORK 


GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 




a 



COPYRIGHT, 1921, 

BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 





PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OP AMERICA 


FEB 19 1921 

§rC!.A608412 


DEDICATED 

TO 

J. DE M. S. 


♦ 





A RECKLESS PURITAN 

PART ONE 



PART ONE 


CHAPTER I 

Eustace Clint stared through the window of a first-class car- 
riage of the Great Southern and Western Railway, and decided 
that Ireland was a fine country, and that there was compara- 
tively little wire in the landscape. He appreciated scenery from 
the point of view of a hunting man and, after the fashion of all 
true huntsmen, watched the fences as he sped along, riding a 
phantom hunt, with his feet on the cushions of the seat opposite. 

He was on his way to Ardclare, where he was to stay for a 
few weeks with Lord and Lady Duncarrig, and though the Morn- 
ing Post informed him that the country was in a highly danger- 
ous state, the people who lived in Ireland seemed to go on much 
as usual. 

Duncarrig and he had been in the same regiment in Erance, 
and comrades in the Great War, and now that war was over, 
they continued to be friends, and out of this the invitation had 
arisen. Clint had never been in Ireland, and Duncarrig, who 
though he spoke very harshly of the Irish liked Ardclare by far 
the best of his various “places,” said that he must come over. 
He could give Eustace a good time in a quiet way, and the 
stables offered a plentiful supply of hunters, so that Clint, who 
was only coming for a fortnight, had no need to fall back upon 
local hirelings. 

Eustace was a good-looking young man of thirty, with rather 
inexpressive, deep blue eyes, smooth soft hair and nearly Grecian 
features. He was quite well off, had a thoroughly modem and 
comfortable house in Buckinghamshire, and his father was dead. 
His reputation for affairs of the non-matrimonial sort, in no way 
damaged his character in the eyes of the world in which he 
lived, and to which Lady Duncarrig belonged. She realized that 
if a man had escaped a war marriage he must have some char- 
acter, and dozens of girls had certainly tried to marry Clint. 

9 


IO 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


War had done its best or its worst, and still Eustace was free, 
and therefore, entirely eligible for a suitable peace alliance. 

The idea took shape originally in London, and Lady Dun- 
carrig decided that Veronica Stuart, her own cousin, was exactly 
the right girl for Clint. She was young, well connected, had 
four hundred a year of her own, and since the Armistice had 
travelled Europe in the wake of international Conferences. No 
Conference could be complete without Veronica; and she was 
really extremely well informed. No word of any ulterior in- 
tention, however, had been actually exchanged between Lord 
Duncarrig and his wife. It happened, as it were, quite acci- 
dentally, and Veronica had arrived a good week before Clint was 
due at Ardclare. 

Clint watched the changing sky and gradually grew sleepy. 
He did not strain his mind by thinking profoundly. All he 
knew was, that there seemed to be plenty of room in Ireland. It 
wasn’t “cluttered up” with villas or gardens, and the women 
he had seen at the various stations at which the train had 
stopped, were quite charming to look at. He was a thoroughly 
good judge, and it saddened him a little to notice how badly 
most of them were dressed. He met with no black looks from 
the Irish themselves; they did not shake fists in his face, or 
accuse him of being a “Sassenach” (whatever a Sassenach really 
was) and he had a general feeling that they were maligned in 
the Press. 

The journey was frightfully long, and the train was slow. His 
grand isolation implied that few of the Irish travelled first 
class, and in the end he slept until the train arrived at Mallow 
Junction and he changed to a branch line which was to take him 
to Ardclare station. The change proved considerably for the 
worse, the small train taking over an hour to complete the dis- 
tance, which was ridiculous. However, Eustace made the best 
of it; he usually made the best of things, and though he had 
almost no sense of humour, he had a rag-time love of fun, which 
endeared him to all his friends. An oil lamp winked over his 
head like a weary drunkard and threw only a vicarious light 
around, and from somewhere in the back of the train there came 
a sound of slightly intoxicated song; rather a mournful and 
dirge-like sound, the words of which he could not understand. 

Dusk was falling when he arrived at Ardclare station, and 
stood on the platform to look around him at a wide sweep of 
mountains, the colour of lapis lazuli against a cold primrose 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


ii 


sky. A faint line of shining gold to the west marked the depart- 
ing sunset, and some pine trees behind the low white station 
buildings, sighed gently. There was a strong smell of burning 
peat in the air, and the restful sense of having come to a place 
where no one was in any hurry. Even Duncarrig was un- 
punctual though the train was well behind time, and Eustace 
watched the fire-lit smoke from the engine soar slowly upwards, 
as the train proceeded on its way along the faintly glimmering 
metals. 

When his luggage had been piled on the platform, Clint 
turned to find Lord Duncarrig hurrying to greet him. He had 
been detained by a Vestry meeting, which was his excuse, and 
they walked together through the white gate in the paling. 
Duncarrig was genuinely glad to see his friend, and he talked 
in snatches as he drove him through the village to Ardclare 
House. 

“The roads are damnably bad,” he said as the car bumped 
through the wide, gaunt street. “This is the village, a ruin, of 
course, like everything else over here.” 

“It’s a nice country,” Clint said cheerfully. 

“By Gad ! And the people ... a perfect sink of disaffection.” 
Lord Duncarrig said something strong about “Republicans and 
Publicans,” and they ran clear of Ardclare and began to climb 
a tree-bordered hill, where stars showed in a darkening sky. 

The entrance gates of Ardclare House were only a short dis- 
tance from the village, and Duncarrig explained that they would 
be in time for tea. “A few people staying,” he said as the car 
came in sight of the lighted windows of the house. “D’you 
know the Sydney Marlands? Friends of Alicia’s. She talks 
about vegetables.” 

“A gardener?” Clint suggested. 

“No, a vegetarian,” Duncarrig laughed. “That’s good, Eus- 
tace! A gardener! By jove! But what I meant to say, was 
that the stable is ours. Veronica Stuart brought her own mare.” 

“Oh, she is here?” Clint’s voice was neither enthusiastic 
nor the reverse. He merely noted the fact. 

Ardclare House was a large solid building, devoid of fantasy. 
It might even have been a good hotel, and stood squarely in 
front of fine gardens, where the land dropped suddenly away in 
a steep descent to the river. A heavy porch, supported by 
strong pillars stood on top of a flight of half a dozen steps. Since 
the days of the first Lord Duncarrig, it had remained almost 


12 A RECKLESS PURITAN 

unchanged, and the succeeding generations had done very little 
to alter it. 

The large drawing-room appeared to be full of people, and he 
was led to a place near a fine roaring fire, with the pleasantly 
puzzled sense of having been swept back into some quiet eorner 
of life, whither nothing new ever penetrated. 

Lady Dunearrig was a slightly petulant edition of her own 
grandmother. She was unimpressive in appearance, and had 
an eager glance and all the right ideas about everything. You 
never met at Ardclare, in their house in London, or the other 
house in Scotland, or even at the villa at Hyeres, anyone about 
whom there had been the smallest breath of scandal — that is to 
say, among the women. With regard to men, her views were 
different, and she was more liberal. 

On the whole, she was conscientious and fussy, and her life 
was a pattern of virtue to those who studied it. She had mar- 
ried Dunearrig when they were both quite young people, and 
they, or rather she, had weathered the storm and come into the 
flat waters of middle age without disaster. 

Dunearrig was a hearty mannered man of well over forty, 
who was sure that he must always be right. He did everything 
a little — rode a little, shot, still danced a little, and even drank 
a little more than was good for him. He read the lessons in 
Ardclare Church on Sundays, and was interested in the parish, 
so that he was also a little religious. He was a good Conserva- 
tive; regarded Home Rule as a stale joke in decidedly bad taste, 
and the very mention of the words “Irish Republic” made him 
almost eloquent. 

The feeling of the house was dense, solid and intensely 
respectable. There was permanency about it, and it implied that 
it would endure like the goodness of God — for ever. 

After a little, Eustace began to distinguish between the guests 
staying in the house, and the handful of agitated callers, who 
had come out of the grey, whispering world outside, and were 
showing their sense of appreciation that Lord and Lady Dun- 
carrig were in residence at Ardclare. Towards these Lady Dun- 
carrig showed spasms of intense and bored politeness, and then 
again ignored them for a time, leaving them finally to their own 
devices from the moment when Clint arrived. 

He was then given to understand that he was a welcome guest 
and Veronica Stuart disentangled herself from her talk with 
a red faced and noisy-voiced young man, and joined the inner 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


13 

circle by the fire. She was a thin, intense girl, with a clear 
toneless voice and dark eyes. Her clothes were perfectly chosen 
and emphasised a vague distinction about her, which was her 
trump card. Probably she had already guessed the plan which 
Alicia had made for her and Eustace, and was not averse to it, 
for her manner of greeting him was easy and even intimate. 
Mrs. Sydney Marland also made herself one of the group, so 
that the disconsolate guests were left, looking considerably out 
of it, until Lord Duncarrig made his way towards them with 
great friendliness and aplomb. 

Clint glanced at them, from the sacred circle round the fire, 
and his eyes lingered a little on a distant corner where an elderly 
clergyman was finishing his tea. A girl was sitting near him, 
looking about her restlessly, and as she encountered Clint’s 
look she gave him an unmistakable glad eye. It surprised and 
amused him, but he was immediately conscious that Veronica 
was watching him obliquely, and he caught up the dropped 
thread of the conversation. 

The girl, who was abominably dressed, had a piquante face, 
and the air of a schoolboy who has been up to mischief. She 
was small, and Eustace decided that her figure was exceptionally 
good. He wished that she was not so far away from where he 
sat, and he indulged himself in another covert glance in her 
direction. 

The other callers looked to him all just the same except 
for the noisy young man who had grabbed Lord Duncarrig and 
was talking to him in raucous tones. 

After a time, Lord Duncarrig moved onward again as though 
he were playing chess with himself, and paused before a deep 
arm chair where an elderly and handsome woman was sitting, 
looking like a Cassandra on the eve of battle. Her dignity had 
been affronted by Lady Duncarrig and she sat and brooded 
wrathfully until her host spoke to her. 

“How are you. Miss White?” he said with great enthusiasm. 
He believed that he liked Miss White, and, indeed, that he 
liked nearly anyone who came to call, provided that they knew 
when to go. 

Miss White smiled, and turned her back more pronouncedly 
upon Mrs. Francis Dykes, with whom she had fought some 
fifteen years before, and to whom she had never spoken since. 
Whenever they met they cut one another deliberately, and kept 
the quarrel up with unflagging animation, though the cause 


i 4 A RECKLESS PURITAN 

which had originally been clear was now lost in the fog of 
time. 

“And how is your father ?” Lord Duncarrig continued breezily. 
“You must remember me to him.” 

Miss White flushed heavily. “He died four years ago, Lord 
Duncarrig,” she said in a thin, petulant voice. “You attended 
his funeral during your leave from France.” 

For a moment, Lord Duncarrig’s belief in himself faltered, 
but he recovered quickly. 

“Ah, the war,” he said, apologetically. “It has made me forget 
so many things,” and he hurried on to the next group of forlorn- 
looking visitors, hastening towards the Rev. Mr. Desmond, with 
whom he could discuss the recent Vestry meeting. 

From the direction of the tea table, Veronica could be heard 
talking of her experiences in Paris, and how, from thence she 
had wangled a permission to go to Warsaw. She talked inti- 
mately about celebrities, and alluded to her own reputation for 
tact, but her recollections of the places in which she had been, 
were oddly featureless, and Clint did not take the smallest 
interest in what she was saying, though Lady Duncarrig gave 
an attentive ear, and smiled with an air of considerable ap- 
proval. Veronica was stepping up well, and showing her paces 
to admiration. 

Eustace was also a talker, and he resented being reduced to 
the status of the mere audience. At first he had waited for a 
chance to plunge in, and insist upon being listened to, but at 
length he gave up the idea and looked again at the girl in the 
corner. She would have listened to him, he felt sure, and he felt 
slightly annoyed that she was so obviously ostracised. 

At last the callers began to depart, led by Mrs. Francis Dykes, 
a pale, sharp featured woman with a bitter tongue. She was 
thoroughly disgusted by her reception, but did not dare to show 
fight. Once every year she dined at Ardclare and as this was a 
special favour accorded to her because her late husband had 
attended Lord Duncarrig’s father in his last illness, she clung to 
it desperately, so that she was outwardly amiable and gracious. 

“Oh, good-bye,” Lady Duncarrig said absently, “I hope it 
isn’t raining. The one thing one can always count upon in 
Ireland, is rain,” and Mrs. Dykes got herself out of the large 
room, accompanied by Milson Rogers who clamoured as he 
grasped Lady Duncarrig’s hand and seemed to make a lot of 
unnecessary tumult over the simple act of farewell. Close upon 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 15 

his heels followed Miss White who insisted upon herself with 
heavy deliberation and discussed the prospects of a work guild 
with Lady Duncarrig, until at last she too left; Lord Duncarrig 
seeing her to the door. He was repentant when he recollected 
his faux pas , and wished her to understand that he meant noth- 
ing unkind. 

The circle around the fire re-seated themselves. As for Clint, 
he remained silent, and Mr. Desmond and his daughter stood 
doubtfully at a little distance, no one taking the smallest notice 
of them. 

After a moment Mr. Desmond moved forward, holding the 
arm of the attractive looking girl in the ill-fitting, cheaply made 
coat and skirt, and like a reluctant swimmer he approached 
Lady Duncarrig. 

“I fear we must be going,” he said, holding out his hand nerv- 
ously. “Yes, I fear we must.” 

Once again Lady Duncarrig rose. 

“Good-bye, Mr. Desmond. Good-bye” she remarked, and held 
out her hand towards the girl, looking over the top of the gay 
and obviously “Sunday” hat, which had been put on in her 
honour. 

Eustace watched the proceedings, standing stiffly by his chair. 
Obviously, Miss Desmond was not a favourite with Lady Dun- 
carrig, and she made no secret of her feelings. 

Once more their eyes met, and Clint knew that Veronica 
was watching satirically. He repressed his natural impulse, 
which had been — awful as such a thought was — to wink, just 
to cheer her up a bit. Instead, he only looked self-conscious. It 
would have been like winking in a Cathedral during service, 
with the Bishop’s eye on you. 

She was pretty. As she followed her father out of the room 
with a jaunty step, he repeated to himself that she was pretty. 
Her nose had an engaging little tilt to it, and her face was 
freckled. The colour in her cheeks was a clear, faint pink, and 
her restless eyes, which somehow were not in accurate keeping 
with the rest of her, were a strong pansy blue. Decently dressed, 
and given half a chance, Eustace felt that Miss Desmond might 
be a huge success, for there was something of the darling about 
her . . . just what Veronica Stuart was not, and never could 
be ; but the dim-eyed old gentleman with stooping shoulders and 
his daughter must be people who did not count; they had been 
bundled out of Ardclare with the scantiest courtesy. 


i6 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


Clint was well accustomed to autocratically bad manners, 
but some little feeling awoke in him at that moment, which 
made him antagonistic to Lady Duncarrig, and he felt that she 
was really a specious sham. She had over-dosed him with her 
tinkling effusion, and he sat down again, irritated and inclined 
to criticise. 

Lord Duncarrig returned at that moment, and joined them, 
asking for a second cup of tea, and his wife relaxed her 
shoulders and lay back in her chair with the air of one who has 
come honourably through a trying ordeal. 

“Poor Mr. Desmond,” she remarked. 

“I like old Desmond,” Lord Duncarrig said with his unfailing 
heartiness. “He was very sound at the vestry meeting. The, 
churchwardens were giving trouble.” 

“Oh?” Lady Duncarrig raised her light eyebrows; she was 
not interested in the least. 

“No reason to pity him,” Duncarrig went on. “A nice 
rectory, nothing to do, and a good garden.” 

“I referred to his daughter,” she replied frigidly. 

“Georgie? Oh, come now, Alicia, Georgie has no harm in 
her. A wild little thing,” he said broad-mindedly. 

“What has she been up to?” Clint asked, with a revival of 
interest in the conversation. “Is she a Republican?” 

“I don’t know what her political views may be,” Lady Dun- 
carrig replied, screwing up her mouth, “but she is hopeless, so 
unsuitable.” 

“Quite,” Clint replied. “Oh, quite. I rather noticed it my- 
self.” 

“You are always down on Georgie,” Lord Duncarrig said, 
warming his hands at the fire. “If she does flirt I’m sure I 
don’t blame her, and I like her brogue. It’s charming.” 

Veronica for once made no effort to grab the conversation, 
nor did she commit herself to any criticism of Miss Desmond. 
The inference was that she did not consider her worth it. 

“ ‘Georgie Porgie, puddingy pie,’ ” Lord Duncarrig quoted 
with a good resounding laugh, “kissed the boys, but, by Gad, I 
don’t think they’d cry.” 

“Veronica, dear,” Lady Duncarrig said quietly, “how long 
will it take you to dress ?” 

Lord Duncarrig telegraphed to Clint that he was in disgrace 
for the moment ; but he didn’t mind. He had a kind heart, and 
he liked Georgie. Alicia was frightfully particular. He being 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


17 

a man of the world was less critical, but all the same, Alicia 
was right as to principle. 

“Here in a place like this if a girl has any dash about her 
she gets a black mark,” he said pleasantly. “Alicia thinks, 
and mind you I’m not saying she isn’t right, that a clergyman’a 
daughter ought to be a kind of Miss Prim. Butter not melting 
in her mouth and so forth. Georgie is all right; don’t believe 
all you hear of her, Eustace.” 

Clint went up to his room and his thoughts still occupied 
themselves with Georgie Desmond. He felt that she had shown 
a distinct wish to know him. Her method had been simple, 
like that of a child who had pinched his arm, cried “tig” and 
ran away, waiting to be caught and possibly kissed, to an accom- 
paniment of laughter and slapping. 

In spite of her vile clothes, he much preferred Georgie to 
Veronica, though he had not even heard her speak. She could 
not possibly dart about the map of Europe, for he suspected that 
she knew nothing about it, and that was a blessing. Eustace 
had a simple way of dividing women into two classes ; those who 
were “his style,” and those who were not. And on sight he had 
recognised that Georgie Desmond was “his style.” 

He prepared to resign himself once more to Veronica Stuart. 
It looked almost as though she were going to spoil his visit to 
Ardclare. 


CHAPTEK H 


The first meet of hounds took place in Ardclare village two 
days later, and the main street suddenly became as gay as a 
fair, with a good smattering of pink coats, and a crowd of lesser 
followers in ordinary clothing. Wild-looking boys on mounts 
which knew very little of the curry-comb, and keen-faced dealers 
who kept their eyes open and moved about appraising the points 
of young ’uns, with a view to subsequent barter. 

The village street was wide and draughty, leading up to where 
a grey church stood at the parting of two roads, the chestnut 
trees around it still in scanty yellow leaf. An exquisite blue 
sky, rain-washed and clear, shone overhead, and the country 
blazed with strong colour, for there had been very little frost, 
and the woods were bright with the glory of the sweet decadence 
of late autumn. The air was as soft as silk and a light westerly 
wind scurried through the fallen leaves on the roadsides and 
whispered in the tussocky grasses. Everything promised well in 
the sporting world ; the cobwebs along the thorn hedges glittered 
with diamond drops, clinging to the hard dark interlacement 
of fine branches, between lemon yellow leaves and clusters of 
red berries. 

With a wild blue sky over his head, and a fabulously green 
world around him, Clint decided at once that it would be folly 
to allow Veronica to interfere with his pleasure in the day. 
He felt sure that for all her talk she probably was not much 
of a horsewoman, though he admitted that she looked extremely 
well when she joined him and Duncarrig on the avenue outside 
Ardclare. She was riding a bright bay, and her whipcord 
breeches and long coat were perfectly cut. No one could have 
found fault with her boots, which were perfection, and her hard 
wide-brimmed hat suited her admirably. 

Lady Duncarrig drove the pony trap, and they started off 
down the avenue through the brilliant morning light, arriving 
at the main street just as the hounds came along another road, 
and a general move was made towards the first covert. 

It was some time before Clint spotted Georgie Desmond, who 

18 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


19 

was riding close behind the hounds, talking to the master, 
David Cleary, and evidently amusing him, for bursts of laughter 
came backwards to Eustace Clint. 

She was riding a rakish-looking iron-grey which required a 
great deal of managing, but Georgie appeared to be well able 
for l\im, and kept under his obvious inclination to buck. She 
was wearing a blue habit of ancient cut, and looked like a pic- 
ture out of an old Christmas number of the Graphic or Sporting 
and Dramatic. Her habit skirt bunched up around her like a 
petticoat, and now and then she tugged it down over her boots, 
when she could spare a hand. Eustace was distressed by the 
effect, and glanced again at Veronica. 

“Isn’t that the funny little object who was calling at Ard- 
clare the other day?” Veronica asked. 

“Yes, I think so,” Clint agreed. 

“Her habit is a survival. I suppose she keeps along the 
roads,” Miss Stuart said, with a touch of consideration, and 
as she spoke the horses in front slowed up, and David Cleary 
turned his hunter at the bank at the left of the road and 
jumped into the field. The hounds followed, and directly after 
they were clear, Miss Desmond’s grey shot wildly over, and she 
cantered away up the headland. 

“That doesn’t look like keeping on the roads,” Clint remarked 
ns he rammed his horse at a likely-looking place a little farther 
down. Some one else had opened a gate leading into a lane run- 
ning towards a wood covert an the hillside, and presently the 
whole field were jogging along between the hedges ; but Eustace 
had got clear of them, and continued to follow Georgie, whose 
grey progressed in a series of rocket-like bounds, towards a 
sheltered corner a little distance from the crowd. He might 
have spoken to her then, and had sotne intention of pretending 
that they had already been introduced, but once again Veronica 
intervened and there was no time for him to manoeuvre a meet- 
ing. Then hoarse shouts were heard from the opposite side of 
the covert ; in a second, the hounds streamed out, and he forgot 
everything else in the realisation that it would take him all his 
time to keep up with the fierce pace at which they were running. 

After a time he realised that there were now very few people 
in front of him. David Cleary, one of the whips, and half a 
dozen others were scattered widely in a broken line, and Georgie 
Desmond was going well, just ahead. It annoyed him to think 
that he could not catch her up, but he had ample opportunity 


20 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


to realise that she was a really fine rider; and still the pace 
slackened very little, until they left the grass country behind 
and began to travel over poor, heather-tufted land, where a 
considerable rise of ground faced them. Again the numbers 
had thinned out, and instead of wide banks with deep ditches 
on either side, they were into a mountainy place where the* small 
cultivated patches were separated by loose stone walls. The 
horse Clint was riding laboured heavily, and it looked as though 
he would have to pull up, when the whole tension snapped sud- 
denly like a broken thread, and David Cleary, who had reached 
the top of the hill, swung off his horse and looked around him, 
putting his horn to his lips, and blowing breathlessly. All the 
gorgeous excitement of the run, with its swinging ups and 
downs through the valley, was over, and already the day had 
changed and there was evidence of that fatal state of affairs for 
a huntsman, “rain overhead.” 

Even the face of the country was changed, and the soft green 
land lay away below them, for they had run into low hills, 
and the air blew keen and cold. A group of stunted firs held 
the summit like a lonely outpost, and the wide view was mag- 
nificent, traced by the gleaming line of a wide river. Above the 
valley all was fierce and melancholy, and hugh granite boulders 
were scattered through the meagre grass. One or two small 
cottages, surrounded by potato patches, showed that human life 
made an effort to support itself in spite of hardship, but the 
effect was curiously solitary and remote. A sleety rain began to 
fall from the fringes of a heavy cloud, and Clint turned up 
the collar of his coat and made his way towards Georgie 
Desmond. 

Her face was flushed and wind-beaten, and wild straggles of 
hair came down over the wreckage of her ill-tied stock ; the grey 
had had enough, and, coated deep with mud, was ridden to a 
standstill. Miss Desmond presented, indeed, rather a battered 
appearance, for her hat had been dinged in as she crossed a 
fence under a low-branched tree, and her skirt Was wisped to 
a degree which suggested that she was now wearing it back 
to front. 

Eustace intended to introduce himself, but it proved to be 
unnecessary, and she greeted him at once. “Will you catch 
Garryowen by the head,” she said, “and I’ll slip off. He’s lost 
for good.” Slle evidently alluded to the fox. “There’s more 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 21 

holes in Knockmore than in my stockings, and we’ve said fare- 
well to him.” 

Clint dismounted and limped towards her; he was very stiff, 
as he had not ridden for some time, and they heard the distant 
sound of the horn coming faintly to them from the far side of 
the hill. 

“David’s at it again,” Miss Desmond remarked with a giggle. 
“But it’s no kind of use. The day is over.” 

Clint suggested that they should shelter under the lee of the 
hill, where the fir trees offered some protection from the coming 
storm. He was amused to find himself alone with Miss Des- 
mond in this wild, new land, and, as she said, the day really was 
over, even if his hunter could have stood any more, which he 
doubted. They were a long distance from Ardclare, there was 
plenty of time before them, and leading the horses, he made his 
way to where a landfall had made a red scar in the heather 
grass, forming a deep, gorse-grown hollow, with trees on the 
sky-line, now straining and creaking against the wind. 

“I’ve got some sandwiches,” he said, having fastened the 
horses up to a couple of sheltered stumps, “so we can have a 
picnic ; and there is something or other in my flask.” 

Miss Desmond perched herself on a mossy stone, and looked 
at him with her blue, speculative eyes. Her eyes attracted him, 
but he felt again, that they were unexpected in such a round, 
impertinent little face. 

“I’ll have a mouthful of ‘something or other’ first,” she said, 
taking his flask and tilting back her head, “and then,” she 
handed it back to him, “I’ll have a cigarette.” 

Clint offered her his cigarette-case, and she helped herself. 
“Now, can you crack a match for me?” she asked, and he 
watched her absorbed look as she bent towards the tiny flame 
imprisoned in his hands. 

“I wanted to meet you that day at Ardclare,” he said, sitting 
down beside her. He felt that it was the right way to begin, 
and she gave him a sideways glance. 

“Did you, indeed?” she remarked. “I thought you were 
otherwise engaged. What has become of her? I said to David 
Cleary, directly .1 saw her, that she’d call a cab before we were 
long out of Templecarrig. That’s the place where we crossed 
the dyke.” 

“I expect she did,” Eustace agreed. “But you were quite 
wrong in thinking that I was engaged.” 


22 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


“Do you tell me that ?” Georgie replied. “What a tea party 1 
Dada and I were like the babes in the wood, and we couldn’t 
hardly get away. Lady Duncarrig doesn’t like me.” 

“Very foolish of her.” 

“Dada said I ought to come with him,” Miss Desmond con- 
tinued, “and when we got there I was left solo in the corner. 
I’d hate to be in that set, they’re so stiff, aren’t they?” 

“They are dreadfully dull,” Eustace said with deep convic- 
tion. 

“Of course,” Georgie continued volubly, “everyone here makes 
a lot of being thick with th’ Duncarrigs, and one is pretending 
they go to Ardclare more than another. Mrs. Francis Dykes 
dines there, and Miss White goes to see Lady Dun in the morn- 
ings and stays on until they’re ashamed into asking her to lunch 
with them. I’d not take a present of any of them.” 

“You are an anarchist,” Clint said, smiling slowly. “Take 
off your gloves and I’ll warm your hands.” He drew off the 
worn leather gloves she wore, but as he held her hands he felt 
that they were warmer than his own. 

“Did you see the look that girl who was talking to you gave 
me, when I was clearing out?” Miss Desmond asked with a 
laugh. “It would freeze a nation. And old Dun with her waved 
toupey, looking like nothing natural. I like Lord Duncarrig. 
He is as friendly as anything, and usually he asks me to dance 
at the Hunt Ball. But they don’t never introduce.” 

Clint pressed her hands gently. “I made up my mind I’d 
get to know you,” he said. 

“Then you’ll be in Lady D’s black books,” Georgie said with 
a wise nod of her head. “And as likely as not, I’ll not see you 
again except in church.” 

“Come now, I think we can go one better than that,” he 
replied, and he felt an overwhelming impulse to kiss her, but 
something held him back. She was ridiculously frank and art- 
less, and it was rather mean to take advantage of her. 

‘How long are you stopping?” she said, throwing away the 
end of her cigarette. 

“I shall be at Ardclare for another ten days,” he said. ‘Have 
another cigarette?” 

“I might,” she replied, disengaging her hands while he pro- 
duced his case again and gave her one. 

“Couldn’t I see you?” he asked. “Can’t you invite me to 
tea?” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 23 

“Yes, that’s the idea,” she replied, and he gathered her hands 
back to his own again. “It’s up to you to think of how you’ll 
work it. I tell you I’m not liked. D’you know, I don’t know 
what you’re called.” 

“Clint,” he said. “Eustace Clint.” 

Her eyes grew thoughtful. “I’ve never known a man called 
Eustace before,” she said. “Charlies and Toms and Georges, 
of course, and once I knew an Ernest.” 

“Now, now,” he drew a little closer, “you’re counting scalps. 
I can tell that by the colour of your eyes.” 

“And you’re wrong,” she retorted. “Some of them were my 
cousins.” 

“Tell me heaps of things about yourself,” he urged. “Only 
I warn you, I’m jealous.” 

“Cheek,” she remarked laconically. 

“No, a natural instinct. You are very pretty, Miss Georgie 
Desmond.” 

“And it’s a pretty hour of the day to be sitting here with a 
fifteen mile ride before us, and the horses catching their death. 
Home, is our next address.” She took her hands from his and 
picked up her gloves. “The rain is over, and the witches’ cloak 
gone,” she looked up at the cleared sky. 

“Witches’ cloak?” he said. 

Wes, that’s what we call big rain clouds in these parts. You 
know very little.” 

“I’m fearfully innocent,” he agreed, and he wondered again 
if he dared to kiss her. She was a queer mixture of the acces- 
sible and the inaccessible, and he did not want her to lose con- 
fidence in him. After all, there would be other opportunities if 
he managed well. So he got up and mounted Miss Desmond 
on her grey, without making the attempt. 

They rode in single file down a narrow path which brought 
them to a lane, giving him room enough to ride along side of 
her. He was looking forward to a pleasant ten miles, during 
which he could improve the propitious opening of his acquaint- 
ance with Miss Desmond, but as they gained the road they were 
overtaken by a horseman riding a scraggy-looking black, whom 
Clint recognised as the noisy young man who had also been at 
Ardclare on his arrival. 

“’Tis Milson Rogers,” Georgie said, and he realised that she 
also was disappointed. “Well, Milson. How’s the heel of the 
hunt ?” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


24 

“God bless you, Georgie,” he said sourly. “You think no one 
ever sees hounds, only yourself,” and he jogged up between them. 
He was a determined talker of the hardy kind, who cared very 
little whether he was welcome or not, and he evidently had no 
wish to ingratiate himself with Clint, as he appeared to guess 
that Eustace could have done very well without him. 

“Your hair’s falling, Georgie,” he remarked, when they had 
discussed the run at great length. 

“Bother to it,” Georgie put up her hand and endeavoured to 
make some attempt to tidy herself. “I declare I’ve often 
threatened I’d bob it, like the fashion plates in Weldon's 
J ournal. Don’t you think I’d look a fine cut if I did ?” 

“It’s far too nice to spoil,” Clint said, trying to catch her 
eye, and Milson Rogers gave a loud sniff of disdain. 

“That one lives on flattery,” he said, with a look at Clint. 
“Butter is what she likes.” 

“Then I’m sure she gets plenty of it.” Eustace was growing 
bored with Rogers, and the miles were certainly very long. 

They parted at the cross roads by the church, and Milson rode 
on with Georgie as his way lay in the direction of the Rectory. 
Eustace looked back, hoping that she would turn and wave her 
hand, but she did not. 

Milson was ambling along beside her, and he sniffed again. 
“He’s the cut of a barber’s block, Georgie, and he’ll only make 
a hare of you.” 

“It takes two to make hares,” she retorted. “I’m not such a 
fool as you think me, Milson. It’s very bad manners to be talk- 
ing that way.” 

He rode up beside her and spoke, with a flushed, angry face. 
Milson had a large nose and eyes set a little too close together, 
and as Georgie looked at him, she thought him very ugly, for 
his carrot hair seemed positively to blaze. 

“Have you forgotten all the talk about yourself and Simon 
Western?” he said. “‘Simple Simon.’ You’ll go. too far one 
of these days; a nice fool you looked when he cleared out.” 

Georgie favoured him with a steady stare, but her colour 
mounted slightly. 

“Simon and I were great friends,” she said, lifting her chin, 
“but no one can marry on air.” 

“Air ? He meant nothing by it. After all, Georgie, I’ve been 
a good friend to you, and anyhow, I speak the truth.” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


25 

“You’re always saying ugly things, if that’s friendship,” she 
retorted. 

“I’d be sorry to see you make a bad mistake,” he remarked. 
“He’ll laugh at you up at Ardclare, and the Duns are as down 
on you as a hundred of coal, as it is. I’m only advising you 
for your good.” 

Georgie seemed to reflect for a moment, and then she gave a 
little tinkle of laughter. 

“I’d be obliged if you’d mind your own business, Milson, 
that’s one complaint you’ll never die of.” 

They had reached the outskirts of the village, and come to the 
Rectory gate, and Georgie dismounted and pushed it open. 

The Rectory was a small, rather forlorn looking villa, with 
something the effect of having been transplanted from a Lon- 
don suburb ; a mossy tennis lawn, and a few desolate flower-beds 
in front of the windows were enclosed behind a tattered thorn 
hedge. Rain had overflowed from the shoots and made long, 
dirty marks down the front of the house, and there was no evi- 
dence of care anywhere, for the Reverend Maurice Desmond 
“never noticed anything,” and Georgie had no eye for detail. 
They were very poor, and the hunter she rode might be regarded 
as the only extravagance which conditions permitted. 

When Mr. Desmond died Georgie would be left totally un- 
provided for, and had nothing to count upon except her chance 
of marriage. Her mother had been a woman of good family, 
but also quite penniless, and the Desmonds themselves were a 
distant branch of an ancient tree which had mouldered sorely 
with time. Mr. Desmond had become Rector of Ardclare when 
he was still a young man, and collected a heritage of debts which 
did not trouble him in the least. He admired his daughter 
immensely, felt sure that she would make a brilliant marriage, 
and beyond that, he did not speculate further. This attitude 
may have arisen from a sublime trust in Providence, or only 
have been a selfish wish to push the facts out of sight. He was 
habitually easygoing, and seldom opened his bills when they 
were presented. Every week he preached two sermons, taking 
them from a pile in the corner of his dark little study, as they 
followed in rotation. He had written them years before, but 
they did duty again and again, as he had long ceased to be 
interested in his own sermons. He was on good terms with his 
parishioners, who liked him, and frequently said of him that 


26 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


he was “a gentleman,” and his daughter provided them a fruit- 
ful source of gossip. 

Since her earliest years, Georgie had made herself a target for 
the arrows of the critical or vindictive, and she certainly was, as 
Lady Duncarrig said, “so unsuitable” 

She played the wheezy organ in the little church, and con- 
ducted choir practices, collecting all the available young men in 
the neighbourhood, because Georgie had an insatiable love of 
showing her power in this respect. Her up-bringing had been 
her own affair, and quite uncontrolled, so that her natural 
disregard of conventions was subjected to no restraint, and she 
began to flirt at an unusually early age. 

There was something very beguiling about Georgie. Her 
high spirits and tremendous vitality made it easy for her to 
conquer, and it must be admitted that she was hardly fastidious. 
She was a warrior, too, in her way, and well aware of the 
strength of her foes, though she treated them with scant con- 
sideration. She knew that she must get married, and Miss 
White frequently lectured her on the folly of “spoiling her 
chances,” while Mrs. Francis Dykes prophesied that she would 
come to no good. Others, as well as Lady Duncarrig, snubbed 
her and would have left her out, if it had not been for her 
father, and Georgie sometimes dreamed of a possible marriage 
which would place her in a position to square old scores. 

She never analysed herself, or perhaps she might have been 
astonished at her own powers off falling a little in love; though 
no successful emotionalist is ever afraid of burnt fingers; but 
then none of the men who “meant it” were ever able to afford 
a wife, and Georgie was obviously not formed of the stuff which 
stands a long engagement. She had been unofficially engaged 
more than once, and then some one else came along, and she 
found a new subject, and so the chain of small affairs looked 
like lengthening interminably. 

In the case of Simon Western, she had been really hard hit, 
and the watching circle of outside eyes observed the proceedings 
with unusual interest. He had come to the shabby old hotel in 
Ardclare, with a couple of hunters and attached himself to 
Georgie. Report had it, that he was to inherit a place and that 
vague thing, “a fortune” from an old uncle, but Simon was a 
dashing young man with very little of his own. 

During the whole previous hunting season, he and Georgie 
had been the “talk of the world” as she put it, and when he left 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


27 

and there was no announcement of the expected kind, Georgie 
had been more reckless and headlong than ever, and the prophets 
became extremely grim. 

“It is fatal for a girl to get talked about,” Mrs. Francis 
Dykes remarked so frequently that it became like a response to 
a Litany, and yet no one even knew what actually had happened. 

“Men don’t like it,” Miss White said in warning tones; 
“Georgie will go too far, and I for one, should be sorry.” 

But, how to stop Georgie? No one had arrived at that. She 
“got hold of people,” so it was said, and her reputation did not 
discourage fresh young men from following in the train. 

Perhaps the real explanation evaded even those who were her 
captives, who, after all, were not so foolish as they appeared. 

Georgie was very young, and still undeveloped, and though 
Ardclare generally believed that they knew her, it was possible 
that no one did know her, least of all, herself. She blazed like 
a fire in the open, and drew people towards her by a ,kind of 
natural warmth, and all that most people know of fires, is, that 
if they boil saucepans, it is a creditable achievement. 

Yet she inspired real love; the hopelessly insolvent young men 
who might have married her, were aware of something about 
Georgie that they treasured long after in thought, when they 
had gone away and she had forgotten them. She kissed them in 
farewell, and forgot that she had ever done so ; there was noth- 
ing straight-laced about her, and as for her poor reputation, she 
disregarded it. 

There were men who had not understood, and who had done 
her incalculable harm in the eyes of “the world,” for Ardclare 
was her world, since she never left it. . . . 

Some day, everyone felt, she would get into serious trouble. 


CHAPTER III 


Georgie led Garryowen round to the stables at the back of the 
Rectory and handed 'him over to Jimmy, the man-of- all-work, 
giving him a spirited .account of the run. 

She was rather excited, for she had a feeling that Clint was 
going to provide her with some fun. The cannibal in Georgie 
was awakened, and Clint was, outwardly at least, the type of 
man she admired. His clothes and the thin gold cigarette-case 
he carried, his loud, well-bred voice, and a kind of ruthlessness 
of manner appealed to her imagination, and besides tjiis, he was 
staying with the Duns, and Lady Dun would be properly scored 
off, if Georgie Desmond manoeuvred him away from the stick 
of a girl in breeches. Georgie considered it very shameless of 
her to appear in such clothes, and she was quite shocked at 
the thought. 

When she left the stables, where Jimmy was clapping his 
hands together in an enthusiasm of applause, for he adored Miss 
Georgie, she went into the house through the kitchen, and was 
caught into the smell of aromatic preparations for supper. She 
put her head round the kitchen door, and spoke to Katie Love, 
the general servant. 

“I’m fearfully hungry, Katie,” she said. “Is there an egg in 
the howl ? If there is, bring it in when you make the tea.” 

“There’s not an egg in it,” Katie replied from the kitchen 
range, where she was hammering violently. “And there’s not so 
much as a crumb of the cake left. The rats has ate it.” 

“Then bread and butter will do,” Georgie replied cheerfully. 
“Is Dada in?” 

“He’s in since he had his dinner ate,” Katie remarked, push- 
ing hack a wisp of dark hair. “We had Miss White here, and 
she’s here still, 'but I held back from wetting the tea until your- 
self would come.” 

Georgie withdrew from the door, and went up a narrow hack 
stairs, bare of any carpet, leading into a small passage, and 
thence to a hall which was blocked by a large erection stuck all 
over with pegs, and hung with coats and hats. A steel en- 

28 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


29 


graving of a bishop looked down benignly upon the general 
debris, and she threw her hunting-crop down on a table, which 
was crowded with papers and string, and covered with dust. 

Opening one of the three narrow doors of the hall, Georgie 
burst into the drawing-room, where Miss White was sitting in 
a basket-chair by the fire, and Mr. Desmond was seated a little 
distance from an empty table covered with a tea-cloth trimmed 
around with tattered lace. 

“Oh, here you are, Georgie,” her father said, looking relieved. 
He was a weary old man, with thin, mournful features and a 
general effect of steady decline about him. His black clothes 
were never brushed, he wore his hair rather long and lying flat 
over his large head. 

“Yes, here I am,” Georgie put her hands on Miss White’s 
shoulders and bent to kiss her. 

“And you have been smoking out of doors,” Miss White re- 
marked. “Georgie, dear, I don’t think you should.” 

“Nor do I,” added Mr. Desmond. 

“You never see Lady Duncarrig with a cigarette in her 
mouth,” Miss White continued. “And she knows what is done, 
and what isn’t.” 

“Does she, then?” Georgie replied. “Well, I can’t be mould- 
ing myself on th’ Ardclare lot. It’s too much fash; anyway, I 
don’t see why I need.” 

At that moment there was a bump against the door, and Katie 
staggered in, carrying a heavy tray. 

“Th’ egg’s for Miss Georgie,” she said, with a revengeful look 
towards Miss White. “’Tis poached.” 

“Where did you get it?” Georgie asked. “You’re an old 
dear, Katie.” 

“From under the grey hen,” Katie snapped. “Himself is a 
fine little layer.” 

Miss White ignored the conversation, which she felt to be 
hopelessly out of order. The only way to deal with such a 
complete absence of any sense of what should happen in a lady’s 
drawing-room was to pretend that it was not taking place. 

“Th’ egg is for Miss Georgie,” Katie repeated again, as she 
left the room with a good deal of clatter, for she had an inward 
conviction that Miss White would insist upon eating it herself. 

“Come, my dear, and pour out the tea,” Mr. Desmond said in 
a less weary voice. “Did you have a good day’s sport ?” 

Georgie took up her place at the tea-table and began to fill the 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


30 

cups with steaming dark-brown tea, and then, her mouth full 
of bread and butter, she commenced a vivid description of the 
run. The find had been phenomenally rapid, and she dwelt with 
some length upon the details of the line they had followed. 

“I saw Lady Duncarrig driving home, and she invited me back 
for lunch,” Miss White said, with a touch of conscious pride. 
“She finds my advice very useful.” 

“Ah, yes,” Mr. Desmond agreed, “it is a great thing that 
Lady Duncarrig interests herself in our little affairs, though 
sometimes, I must say, I wish she would take more of your 
advice, Miss White.” 

“Miss Stuart was back early,” Miss White continued. “She 
had trouble with a stirrup’s leather, and was nearly thrown.” 

“She to be thrown!” Georgie ejaculated. “Not likely.” 

“She is very elegant,” Miss White said admiringly. 

“Then I think she might wear a skirt,” Georgie retorted. 
“It looks awfully bad, the way she is. I declare I can’t think 
how she can.” 

“It is done.” Miss White handed her tea-cup back to Georgie. 
“I hear the most particular people of all do it now. If Lady 
Duncarrig does not disapprove, I see no reason why you should, 
Georgie; though in some ways I agree that it is hardly lady- 
like.” 

“Clint, the fellow that’s staying at Ardclare, can’t endure 
Miss Stuart,” Georgie said triumphantly. 

Mr. Desmond got up, and said that he must go and write 
some letters, which statement was a harmless fiction, as* he never 
did anything of the kind. In fact it would be hard to say 
what Mr. Desmond really did do with his time. He was one 
of those people who saw no reason to hurry. And even if he 
had wished to work, there was almost nothing of a professional 
nature for him to concentrate upon. His parish was formed of 
what he called “a carriage congregation,” and you do not talk — - 
or at least Mr. Desmond did not — to your neighbours about the 
state of their souls. He was well into the autumn of life, and 
some of the stillness of the season had overtaken his mind, and 
he had come to the conclusion that more harm is done by inter- 
fering with people than by leaving them alone. 

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he was aware that 
Georgie was not an ideal clergyman’s daughter, but he decided 
that it was not possible to alter her. He was mildly interested 
in local gossip, and if he stood little chance of being saved by 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


3i 


works, lie certainly never harmed anyone. He was invariably 
polite and patient, and Miss White had been more or less on his 
mind for years, because he knew that if he asked her she would 
marry him, and he had long ago decided that he would never 
marry again. 

He faded out of the room, and Georgie threw a cushion on 
the floor, seating herself in front of the fire. 

“Did old Dun say anything about Clint?” she asked. 

“Georgie, darling, do speak of that gentleman as Captain 
Clint,” Miss White said reprovingly. 

“Very well, then. Did she?” 

Lady Duncarrig had never mentioned Eustace, further than 
to ask, in an exhausted voice, what Veronica had done with 
him, for she had returned alone with Lord Duncarrig; but Miss 
White had her own fictions, and one of them was that she knew 
everything that passed in the minds of the owners of Ardclare. 
Georgie more or less believed that Lady Dun opened her heart to 
Miss White, and that there was a real intimacy between them. 

“I understand,” Miss White said with a touch of reserve, 
“that Captain Clint was in charge of Miss Stuart. I don’t 
know that there is any actual engagement, but there is an 
understanding.” 

“There’s several sorts of understandings,” Georgie remarked, 
taking up the poker and prodding a burning log until a shower 
of sparks flew up the chimney. 

“I feel sure,” Miss White resumed, “that there will be an 
engagement, even if it is not announced at once.” 

“What’ll you bet me ?” Georgie put her head on one side and 
looked up. “A packet of Gold Flakes against the new hymn- 
book Dada gave me on my birthday, that it never comes off.” 

Miss White shook her head. “In any case I wouldn’t encour- 
age you in your love for tobacco,” she said reprovingly, “and 
I warn you, Georgie, that you won’t be doing a wise thing if 
you make mischief.” 

“Who’s talking of making mischief?” 

“As it is,” Miss White went on, “Lady Duncarrig doesn’t 
approve of you, and all that talk there was about you and Simon 
Western made things worse. If you do do anything with Cap- 
tain Clint, Lady Duncarrig will be furious.” 

“Tell me something new,” Georgie remarked scornfully. 

“I’m speaking for your good. To be out with the Duncar- 


32 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


rigs will be bad for you socially, and it’s easily seen that the 
match is arranged.” 

“He’s coming to tea,” Georgie said with a laugh. “And 
’twasn’t me asked him. He said he’d come, and I couldn’t be 
so ugly as to refuse him, could I now ?” 

“Yes, you could.” Miss White was obviously nervous. “It’s 
madness, Georgie. Won’t you ever have sense?” 

“Not if I live to be seventy,” Georgie said with conviction. 
“It’s so dull. If you and Dada had your way, I’d never cross 
the road, and all the fun I ever get is by being foolish — and 
perhaps I’m not the fool after all. Clint’s very rich, I sup- 
pose ?” 

“Very,” Miss White agreed, knowing nothing whatever about 
it. 

“Well, if he likes me better than Miss Stuart, what harm?’ - ' 

Miss White pursed up her mouth and remained silent. She 
considered it unlikely that Clint would swerve from the suitable 
engagement Lady Duncarrig had made for him, and yet she 
knew Georgie’s will-o’-the-wisp powers of leading people into a 
dance which ended nowhere, certainly not at the altar, which 
was her idea of a satisfactory conclusion to all such affairs. 
Clint might have been “taken” by Georgie, for so many men 
had, and it would merely give Lady Duncarrig yet another 
reason for disliking the girl. She was sincerely fond of Georgie, 
and was extremely good-natured, so that there was nothing she 
wished for more truly than to see her suitably married. She 
regarded marriage as the one unfailing remedy, and though, 
or because she had missed the experience herself, was convinced 
of its magical qualities. The addition of a plain gold ring to 
the third finger of the left hand caused the Ethiopian to change 
her skin, and the leopard her spots. 

If Georgie could be got married, she would then settle down, 
and her predatory instinct would vanish as she rocked a cradle 
and ruled the world. Miss White had a feeling that young 
Rogers really meant it, and that if Georgie gave up this danger- 
ous game, she might be converted and transformed by the quite 
simple process of signing her name “Rogers.” 

Milson was not a good match, but any sort of match was 
obviously better than none. He lived with a hot-tempered old 
lady whom he called “me grandmother,” and had a small house 
and a bit of land. “Me Grandmother” would be a difficult per- 
son to share a roof with, but she was not immortal and might be 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


33 


expected to die some day. So long as Georgie allowed herself 
to be dazzled by Eustace Clint, she would never look at Milson, 
and Miss White was quite unhappy at the thought. 

“Be sensible, Georgie,” she said heavily. “I was young once, 
and I refused more than one good man, because I thought that 
Sir Willum Rafter meant all he said. Look at Constance Ash- 
ford. She was the most beautiful girl in the county, and what 
is she now ? Living in some flat in London, and I’m told she’s 
as bad tempered as her mother was before her, and not sixpence 
to bless herself with. I hear she has to work.” 

The real sorrow she felt at such a fate overtaking one of her 
own early friends, distressed Miss White. 

“She was always dull. No life in her,” Georgie said reflect- 
ively, comparing her own chances with those of the erstwhile 
beauty. “Looks are all very fine, but you need a good pinch of 
gunpowder as well.” 

“Blind,” Miss White said, quoting Dickens quite uncon- 
sciously. “Blind, blind.” 

“Well, are you taking my bet?” Georgie asked, with a revival 
of spirit. “He’s awfully nice, Miss White, and has a lovely 
cigarette-case made of gold.” 

“If you go too far, I shall speak to your fawther,” Miss White 
said, collecting a cloak with a thick fur collar. “Keep in with 
the Duncarrigs, it will pay you best in the end.” 

“What upset things between you and the other man?” 

“Sir Willum? Some one made mischief. It’s very easy to 
make mischief, and that is what I hope you won’t do.” 

Miss White appeared to be strangling herself as she fastened 
her cloak, and then she kissed Georgie on both cheeks, and 
turned majestically to the door. She had done what she could 
for the motherless girl who so badly needed management. 

“You’ll not go telling on me to Dada?” Georgie said with a 
little touch of wistfulness. She was used to sparing Dada as far 
as she could in most things, and was prepared to face the conse- 
quences of her acts alone. Dada lived in a dream world, com- 
posed, it is true, of rather dull dreams, but very far from reality, 
and it made him dignified. He never “let on” that he was 
anxious for her to get married, and he steered his course through 
the autumn fogs quite admirably. It was known that he must 
not be worried, and the exactions this attitude implied were 
endless. From the butcher with his bill, to Lady Duncarrig 
and her disapproval, all must be kept at bay or covered up so that 


34 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


Dada might continue his dreams undisturbed. If Dada were to 
be really agitated, no one could picture the results, but it was 
generally believed that it would be the death of him. 

Miss White covered her face with a shawl, and went out into 
the misty darkness of the night. She lived at “Barnane,” a rose- 
covered, square-built house about a mile farther up the road, in 
company with an unmarried brother who had slipped down the 
precipice of gentility and was never spoken of. He was credited 
with having made a left-handed alliance with the cook, and only 
Miss White’s powers of ignoring all that should not exist made 
it possible for her to carry off the situation. 

She belonged to the generation who refused realism, and pre- 
tended almost gloriously. Had she given in to facts, she would 
have been an unhappy survival of lost days, but she never did 
accept any fact until she had dressed it up and made it present- 
able. Fundamentally a generous and warm-hearted woman, she 
hung up her tapestries of fiction around her. She was Lady 
Duncarrig’s greatest friend; she was the main influence in the 
life of Mr. Desmond, who had never asked her to be his wife 
in case she might refuse him, and Ardclare was to her, as to 
Georgie, “the world.” 

Georgie watched her go, and then, closing the door, she called 
to Katie that she could clear away the tea. Then she climbed 
the steep staircase to her own room, where the bed had not yet 
been made, and where her clothes were tumbled about over chairs 
in abandoned disorder. 

It did not distress her in the least; she struck a match apd 
took up a candle which had been used to assist in lighting a fire 
and was black and sooty round the wick, glancing at her ®wn 
reflection in the small looking-glass. 

Pulling off her boots and flinging her habit on the floor, she 
heaped her mud-stained clothes in a corner, and put on a velvet 
jumper and a serge skirt. With a few brief and energetic move- 
ments she threw the clothes back over the bed and began to 
arrange her hair in front of the glass. She knew that she was 
attractive, for she had been told so too often for her to doubt 
the truth of the assertion, but she did not admire her own style. 
She wished that she was tall and pale, with red hair and green 
eyes, for she had read of such charms and they appealed to her, 
and she felt suddenly that she would like to have gold boxes on 
her dressing-table, and expensive face powder that cost a for- 
tune to buy. 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


35 

It was a wretched thing to be always poor, and never he able 
to go to Madame Murphy, in the Grand Parade in Cork, for 
evening gowns, which represented the wildest height of extrava- 
gance in her mind. It was miserable not to have a new habit of 
purple striped cloth with a velvet collar, and to be aware that 
your boots did you no credit whatever. Dada had no money, so 
it was no use telling him about these things. He would only 
groan aloud and say that he was pestered by demands for pay- 
ments of all kinds. If you had no money, you simply could 
not buy clothes, but it would be splendid to have a really becom- 
ing hat, one which you had not trimmed yourself and could 
believe in. 

When would she marry ? Until she did, there was no way out 
of the hopeless, careless life, pleasant though it was; and 
Georgie thought over the question. 

She had had a really surprising number of suitors, but that 
was all no real use. In some odd way she felt very sincerely 
that she owed it to Dada to get herself off his mind. Besides, 
marriage was an adventure and one had to chance it. 

“I wish to God I could marry you, Georgie,” Simon Western 
had said, but then every one knows that if wishes were horses, 
beggars would ride, and — there was no use thinking of Simon. 

From her mournful reflections, Georgie travelled on suddenly 
to the adventure of the day with Clint. Some instinct in her 
warned her that Clint was not exactly the man to “fool around 
with,” as Milson Rogers had suggested. He was assured, and 
seemed to expect instant capitulation from her, and he belonged 
to the rich, pagan world, where many of the people seemed 
wonderfully heartless and unkind. Lady Dun, for instance; 
Georgie was only a girl, and yet Lady Dun never lost a chance 
of making her look small. 

All these people paid fortunes for their clothes, and didn’t 
care about anyone except themselves. They put on airs and 
were nasty to outsiders. Georgie knew that they ridiculed her 
whenever she went to Ardclare. Yet she felt that they would 
not trouble to do all this if it were not that they regarded her 
as a personality in some way. Her face burned and her eyes 
grew hard and angry. What right had they to trample like 
elephants over the feelings of others ? She lifted her chin, and 
glared at herself almost as though she were having it out with 
Lady Dun. 

Clint might be a dangerous plaything, but to wrest him from 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


36 

the clutches of the self-satisfied Veronica would have its joys, 
even if he never came within reach of what Georgie called “the 
scratch.” That she could ever bring him up to the scratch 
seemed extremely improbable. 

She got up and wandered to the window, pulling back the 
withered serge curtain that hung over it, and leaned out. A 
sense came to her of having reached some invisible landmark, 
and of being swept past it. Fancy getting away from Ard clare 
and the people who knew everything she had ever done since 
she was a child. Censorious people who were always abusing her 
among themselves. Getting away from the little street, where 
money was owed in every shop, and going out into life. The 
few times she had managed to go to Dublin were rare, and she 
always came back. She had never been to England, and Lon- 
don was nothing but a name of power. Yet there was Lon- 
don, and another place which she called “Pars” where life ran 
high; to have been there even once added a cachet to things. 
Miss White had been to London twice, and said she had been 
to Pars, but no one was quite clear as to the facts; anyhow, 
she spoke of “the boulevardes” now and then. 

Georgie had once said to Dada that she would like to see the 
world, and he had told her that so would he, but he had to deny 
himself, and Georgie had a vague notion that if it were not for 
her, Dada might be sitting in a first-class carriage, on his way 
to Monte Carlo. Poor Dada. 

The night had cleared, and the moon was nearly full as it 
silvered the trees which bordered the road, and a little flock of 
clouds white as sheep lay quietly to the west, far, and incredibly 
far from the earth. In the cold light, Georgie’s face looked 
anxious and worried, but she pulled back the curtain quickly, 
and rehearsed her conversation with Clint. 

If he came to tea, she would be excited and elated, and mean- 
time she remembered young Mr. Finney was bidden to supper. 
He was the new Protestant engineer employed by the Local 
Government Board, and always said “Ta” instead of “Thank 
you,” which Georgie thought rather a charming little man- 
nerism. 


CHAPTER IV 


When Georgie had sung to Mr. Finney, and Mr. Finney had 
sung to Georgie, he went away. He had got on very well at 
supper, and Mr. Desmond seemed to like him; he even invited 
him to come again, and Mr. Finney accepted the invitation with 
alacrity, and at last Mr. Desmond saw him out at the front door, 
and chained it up for the night. 

Georgie was pushing away the tattered sheets of music, and 
the echoes of Mr. Finney’s tenor still seemed to hang in the 
small room. The pink wax candles which lighted the crazy old 
piano guttered down, and she extinguished them, as Mr. Des- 
mond removed some half-burnt logs from the fire. 

“Finney is a nice young man,” Mr. Desmond said, in a sub- 
dued, guarded voice. ‘He has, I’m told, private means besides 
his salary, and he may get a job of very much greater im- 
portance.” 

“He’s the greatest fun,” Georgie agreed readily, banging 
down the top of the piano. “I wonder why he wears his watch- 
chain across his chest? He’s to take the solo at Christmas. I 
said I’d coax him, Dada, and he was all over it at once,” she 
yawned. “We want a baritone to drown Mrs. Francis.” 

“I am glad Mr. Finney is taking the solo,” Mr. Desmond 
said. “I like Finney.” Again he lowered his eyes. 

“He sings very well if he’d only keep in tune,” Georgie com- 
mented uncritically. “Reely well.” 

“I am no judge,” Mr. Desmond admitted, and then he began 
to look at the pictures on the walls, not that they were works 
of art, but he was feeling a little self-conscious. 

“I’d like to see you settled,” he said abstractedly ; “you have 
always been my first care, Georgie. Young people do not realise 
the anxiety they are to their parents.” 

“Is it you want to get shut of me ?” she asked half playfully, 
“and you’re thinking that Finney would be a good proposition ? 
He’s not asked me yet, dada, and it’s manners to wait till you’re 
asked.” 

“I don’t think anything at all about Finney,” Mr. Desmond 

37 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


38 

said hastily. “But I do think, that with all these young men 
you ought to show some principle, Georgie.” 

She put her hand on his arm. He had disowned any idea of 
thrusting Finney down her throat, and she thought it was very 
kind and delicate on his part. She even believed that he meant 
nothing at all by what he had said. 

“One of these days,” she said soothingly, as though she were 
speaking to a child. “Only, somehow, I don’t think it will be 
Finney.” 

‘He’s a regular communicant and a thoroughly well educated 
young man,” Mr. Desmond said plaintively, as Georgie steered 
him into the hall, impressed by her own inability to meet his 
wishes, and very regretful that it was so. “It’s time you thought 
seriously of undertaking the responsiblities of life.” 

“Oh, Dada, give me half a chance,” she said as she lighted his 
candle for him. “I’m not as old as all that, surely? Am I 
now ?” 

“It is of your own happiness I am thinking,” Mr. Desmond 
said. “I am always considering that, Georgie.” 

“Indeed and don’t I know it?” she kissed him affectionately, 
her eyes a little moist. 

She patted his dusty black coat, and then looked back again 
at Mr. Desmond from her door. 

“One of these days,” she said again, “I’ll do great things, 
Dada. Never you worry.” 

But his expression was that of a discouraged crow, and he did 
not return her smile. 

The week which followed was an uneventful one for Georgie, 
in the sense that nothing seemed to happen to her personally. 
She heard of a small dance at Ardclare, to which she was not 
invited, and the omission was cruel, because Georgie loved 
dancing and also it placed her very definitely outside the 
favoured circle who were accorded the distinction of being 
among the invited guests. Milson Rogers went, and brdught 
Georgie an account of the proceedings. Mrs. Francis Dykes 
had been bidden, and sat looking on at the fashionable dances, 
enlarging her mind, even though she felt slightly shocked. Miss 
White explained her own absence, and said that Lady Duncarrig 
liked to have her when she was alone, and would not, of course, 
think of sweeping her in with those whom she regarded only as 
acquaintances. Mr. Finney was not asked, but then he did not 
call at Ardclare, so that he could not have expected “crowns to 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


39 

fall,” and the fact that Georgie had also not been invited was 
more than a consolation to him. 

From Milson Rogers, Georgie learnt that Miss Stuart had 
danced most of the evening with Clint, as she only knew the 
very latest dances. Duncarrig, who was not very modern, still 
waltzed round and round, and found plenty of partners who 
only did the same. Clint and Miss Stuart had looked very 
remarkable, and when he was not dancing with Veronica, he 
played bridge. Apparently he had not been introduced to the 
girls of the neighbourhood, and had made no effort to get to 
know any of them. 

“He’s booked through with Miss Stuart,” Milson said with 
unmistakable satisfaction, and Georgie felt unaccountably de- 
pressed and dissatisfied. It was bad to be left out of the few 
gaieties which ever took place in Ardclare, but it might have 
been worse to have gone there only to watch Clint performing 
intricate steps with the superior Miss Stuart. 

Worse than this, Garryowen was laid up with a strained hock, 
and there was no hope of getting to the next meet. 

Georgie wished she could forget Clint and find some one else 
to feel interested in, but no such alternative was at hand. 
November had brought with it a whole flock of bills, which lay 
in an increasing pile on Mr. Desmond’s writing table. A clerical 
meeting was pending, and Georgie felt sure that if Clint ever 
came at all, he would choose that inauspicious day. By the end 
of the week, she had begun to conquer the ache that had made 
her acutely miserable, and had given up squandering eggs to 
prepare a fresh cake each afternoon, while Kate reproached her 
for needless extravagance, obviously suspecting her activities, 
and complaining loudly because she would light the drawing- 
room fire. Clint was not coming at all, and had only been 
fooling. 

And then, quite unexpectedly, the day before the clerical 
meeting, he walked in. 

No preparations had been made and Georgie, who had seen 
him from an upper window, was divided in mind whether she 
would run down and stick a match into the drawing-room 
grate, or change into her velvet jumper. She did neither; and, 
conscious of a lack of finish in her personal appearance, and a 
cold, rather musty smell in the air of the drawing-room, came 
into the room with a funny little fluttering feeling at her heart. 
Clint looked superlatively well brushed and polished, and she 


40 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


thought again how nice it must be to know that you were right, 
down to the last detail. She had caught her foot in the hem of 
her skirt as she came downstairs, and was aware that she had a 
trail of torn braid depending desolately from behind, as she ad- 
vanced towards him. 

“It’s awfully cold, isn’t it?” she said. “Have you a match?” 

He felt in his waistcoat pocket and produced a box full of 
stout expensive wax vestas which burnt like candles, and they 
knelt on the shabby old hearthrug together. But Katie was not 
an adept at laying fires, and the business of getting it to light 
was long, difficult and dirty. Georgie got a black smut on her 
cheek in the process, and it was only with the help of the ends 
of the pink piano candles that they induced the sticks to bum. 

Clint was amused by the proceedings. Ardclare and Miss 
Stuart combined had bored him dreadfully, and he watched 
Georgie’s animated face as she bent forward, encouraging the 
starved flame and blowing at it carefully. 

She was uncommonly pretty, and he had made several efforts 
to get to her during the week, but he knew that Lady Dun- 
carrig suspected him, and there had been quite a heated argu- 
ment between her and Duncarrig over the question of asking 
Georgie to the dance. Duncarrig had appealed, with great lack 
of tact, to Clint, and dragged him into the controversy, when 
he had admitted that he thought she should have had an invita- 
tion. Since then, Lady Duncarrig had never lost an opportunity 
of thwarting his plans, and, whether by accident or design he 
could not say, she had never given him a single free hour. 

That very afternoon he had been obliged to lie so as to escape; 
and if she discovered his mendacity he knew that he would at 
once become suspect to her. 

That morning, John Lousada had turned up at Ardclare and 
created a diversion. Even Veronica had been less coldly per- 
sistent in her determination to make Clint dance attendance 
on her, and Lousada diverted the main attention from Eustace. 
He was understood to be an explorer, and had written a book, 
and some side wind had blown him into Ireland, though no one 
ever knew what he was really up to, or why he appeared or 
disappeared. 

Clint took no interest in him, only, just then, he was glad he 
had come, because it gave him a holiday. 

He looked at Georgie’s profile, and thought it very attractive. 
She had a fascinating nose, tilted up just a shade, and the black 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


4i 

smudge on her face heightened her charm, so that he made a 
sudden dive forward and kissed her. 

She did not seem angry, but she evaded a repetition of the 
salute and drew away. 

“Go on, now,” she said. “And you as good as engaged to Miss 
Stuart. Oughtn’t you to be ashamed of yourself ?” 

“I’m not engaged to Miss Stuart. I’d rather kiss the work- 
house gate than kiss her,” he replied emphatically. ‘‘Why do 
you want to make out that I’m such a fool ?” 

“It’s common talk,” Georgie replied. “Every one here has 
it.” 

“Then they are telling lies,” he caught her hand. “Every 
single day this week I’ve tried to come and see you, and simply 
couldn’t do it. Will you believe that?” 

Georgie winked at him, and sat back on her heels. 

“You must have been deadly keen to be so easy put off,” she 
said. “But now I’ll ring for the tea.” 

“Not yet,” he said, as she took a battered black hearth brush 
and held it lance-wise before her; “put down that brush. Won’t 
you be a little kind to me?” 

“And you two, dancing like people on the stage, so I was 
told; gazing and gazing; and every one admiring the pair of 
you.” 

“I wasn’t gazing. I had to dance with the girl because she 
can’t waltz.” He was obviously becoming vexed and hot. “If 
you’d been there I would have danced with you, Georgie.” 

“Georgie, indeed ! Who gave you leave to call me that ?” 

“I did myself.” 

“And how’d you know that I’d dance with you? But, any- 
how, I wasn’t asked at all!” 

“Lady Duncarrig is a shrew,” he said, getting up, and Georgie 
raised herself and sat in a chair. 

“I’ll recover,” she said, with a toss of her head. “I’ve still 
a few friends in the world. Captain Clint, even if I don’t never 
go t’Ardclare again.” 

“Call me Eustace,” he said. “It’s so formal for you to speak 
to me as if I were a stranger.” 

He sat down and stretched out his legs; the fire was burning 
gaily, and in the light of the flames danced along the walls of 
the dark little room. Outside, the wind was blowing shatters 
of yellow leaves from a lime tree, and they made a dry pattering 
sound like the fall of snow. He had a sense of being cut off 


42 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


from the world hie knew in company with a girl who was able to 
make him feel astonishingly alive and interested. 

Veronica Stuart was undeniably “suitable” and Georgie was 
not ; but at that moment he had an impulse to do what he liked 
himself. A kind of “damn the consequences” mood, which very 
nearly startled him. Clint had avoided marriage as some men 
avoided drink, and he regarded it as a state which demanded a 
great deal to make it worth while. Of course he couldn’t marry 
Georgie. The general opinion seemed to be that no one could, 
and he remembered Duncarrig’s remark : 

“I wonder who Georgie Desmond will marry ?” and his wife’s 
reply: “You should say, ‘I wonder who will marry her?’ ” 

Yet Georgie was undeniable. Even though she had been so 
constantly belittled to him, he admitted that she was strong in 
her own inexplicable charm. Badly dressed, quite unequipped 
for social battles, and oddly unsophisticated. She hadn’t a 
penny, and she was nobody. A clergyman’s daughter seemed to 
be in a strange position, and without special status of any kind. 
Then, she had been talked of in a way which did her no good, 
and if she managed to marry the loud, red-haired young man 
who had been at the dance, she would not be doing too badly. 
All this was an echo of Lady Duncarrig’s attitude. For Clint to 
think even for a moment that Georgie would be a possible wife 
was little short of a miracle; and yet he did think of it. 

“Eustace,” she repeated. “What a stuck-up kind of a name 
your godfathers and godmothers gave you.” 

“I was christened after an uncle,” he explained. “He left 
me a place near Oxford called ‘the Gleanings.’ ” 

For a moment his mind was occupied with the recollection 
of his own house with its rose-red walls and brown roof, and the 
terraced garden; the good stables, and the rather dull life he 
had to lead when he was there. It would be much duller if he 
brought Veronica Stuart into the picture. 

“And what sort of a place is it?” she asked. 

“Oh, a so-so sort of place. Nothing like Ardclare, for in- 
stance, but it’s very comfy.” He smiled a lazy smile at her. 
“Stabling for six and a garage. I only run to a small car. 
There’s good hunting enough, and a bit of glass, so that I grow 
my own pineapples.” 

Georgie sighed, a fleeting little sigh of envy. “It’s well to 
be you,” she said. “And now will you pull the bell and we’ll 
have tea.” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


43 

He got up, but he did not ring, and once more he stood smil- 
ing down at her. “You’re awfully attractive,” he said. 

“I know that,” Georgie replied, her outward indifference 
covering the queer frightened beating of her heart. She had 
been through many affairs, and yet she always felt the same 
exhilaration in them. Clint gave it to her now, though she 
knew it was foolish to suppose that he meant anything ; and then 
there was Dada, and the necessity for some one to mean some- 
thing. 

He stood half doubtfully, thinking that she was rather spoiled 
and too sure of herself, when the moment was snatched from 
him by the appearance of the tea itself and the red, angry face 
of Kate, who had nothing to offer a guest but bread and butter, 
and suffered from a sense of wrath in case the gentleman might 
scorn them all, because there was no cake. 

“Here is the tea,” Georgie said, getting up and dragging the 
table forward. 

“How long are you adorning Ardclare?” she asked when the 
table was spread, and Clint looked at her over the cups and 
saucers. 

“I’m to adorn it for another week,” he replied. “After that, 
the Duncarrigs go to London for Christmas.” 

“And you’ll go t’England? D’you know, I’ve never been 
t’England ?” 

“By Jove!” He was intensely amused at the idea. That is 
strange. How you will love seeing London.” 

“If ever I go there,” her eyes clouded. “Sometimes I think 
that I shall live and die in Ardclare and never get beyond it.” 

“Hot you !” He seemed quite sure of this. 

“Oh, ‘not you’ is all very well; but I don’t know.” 

“I have thought,” Clint looked away from her animated face, 
“that as I like the hunting here, I’d take a room at the hotel 
and stay on until New Year. They are making some alterations 
at ‘The Gleanings,’ so it won’t be quite ready.” 

Her face was so ridiculously expressive when taken unaware, 
that Georgie could not disguise the pleasure she felt at the idea. 
Clint at the hotel : able to come and go without a warder of such 
iron cast as Lady Duncarrig, able to drop in, as others had done; 
and then the days in the open, with the added excitement of 
meeting him beyond the Rectory gate, and the rides home 
together. 

“That would be simply grand,” she said. 


44 A RECKLESS PURITAN 

“Would it? You mean that? You’ll be kind to me if I do 
stay on?” 

“Heffernan could hire you a good couple of screws,” she 
continued, not answering him ; “you’d be comfortable there, and 
they are used to taking in officers.” 

“Then at the end of a week I shall simply move my quarters,” 
he said, and again he watched her face. 

“Whatever’ll Lady Dun say?” Georgie burst into a peal of 
laughter. “I bet she’ll be as cross as the cats.” 

“I don’t care. Why should I ?” 

“No, indeed, why should you, and you as independent as you 
are,” she replied fervently. 

“I will go and arrange it on my way back,” he said; “and I 
ought to be moving, Georgie.” 

“Can you sing?” she asked suddenly. 

“Why?” he asked, in some surprise. “Are you trying to 
change the conversation, or what ?” 

“Only seeking a baritone in Tor unto us,’ ” Georgie said 
enthusiastically. “Finney is a tenor and I’m at me wit’s end 
to gather in a baritone.” 

“I’ll sing in the chorus, nothing else,” he said firmly; “and 
when is it?” 

“It’s th’anthem. I play th’organ,” Georgie spoke faster and 
faster. “On Christmas Day we have Tor unto us,” and we 
want Mrs. Francis Dykes drowned.” 

“I’ll drown her, if she annoys you,” he laughed. “Only it’s 
rather unkind.” 

“Oh! the relief!” Georgie sank back in her chair. “You 
don’t know how I have been bothered for a baritone.” 

“You won’t expect me to sing solos, or anything awful like 
that?” he asked, and he got up and caught her hand over the 
table. “I’d do a lot for you, Georgie, but not that, and I’ll only 
sing if you’ll pay me for it.” 

His face was close to hers and again he was just about to 
kiss her when she pushed him back, as a door banged. 

“That’s Dada coming in,” she said. “Behave nicely now, 
Eustace, and don’t go calling me Georgie before Dada. He 
mightn’t like it, you see.” 

“Of course I won’t,” Clint stood up; “but I must clear out, 
anyhow. What are you doing to-morrow?” 

“Is it to-morrow?” Georgie groaned. “We have a clerical 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


45 

meeting here, and I’ll be in the kitchen all day. The way they 
eat would break your heart.” 

“What do they do ?” he demanded with a puzzled frown. 

“Argue with themselves. To-morrow they’re to have a row 
over th’Immaculate Conception, I believe.” 

It seemed extremely piquant to think of Georgie’s strange 
clerical background, as Clint looked at her, and it added in some 
way to her mystery. He did not exactly know what he thought 
of clergymen, except that he always avoided them on prin- 
ciple, but it intensified the strangeness of everything connected 
with Georgie Desmond. 

Mr. Desmond came into the room, and Georgie introduced 
Clint to her father. 

“Dada, here’s salvation for th’ anthem,” she said gaily. “Cap- 
tain Clint will take the baritone part, so we’re all right. He 
will be at the hotel at Christmas.” 

Mr. Desmond shook hands quite cordially, his eyes on the 
ground. 

“I am happy to learn it. The choir is always a difficult prob- 
lem,” and as he sat down and took a teacup from his daughter, 
he looked at Clint and then looked away again. There was 
something familiar about what Georgie would have called “the 
cut” of Clint. Men such as he had been there before this, and 
Mr. Desmond was aware that to build upon them, was to follow 
in the footsteps of the man who built his house on the sand. 

“Who is this Captain Clint?” he asked fretfully, as Georgie 
returned after a rather prolonged parting at the door. 

“He was at Ardclare the day we called,” she said, ‘‘Look Dada, 
I’ve saved you a weeshy little drop of cream for your tea.” 

“Ah!” Mr. Desmond remarked enigmatically. 

“Oh, no end of a fellow, Dada. A place of his own in Eng- 
land, and very nice, too.” 

But though Mr. Desmond said nothing, he was obviously 
displeased, and the droop of his shoulders intensified the de- 
jection which the advent of Clint had brought with him. He 
did not continue the conversation, but turned to the subject of 
the clerical meeting. 


CHAPTER V 


The great tiling in life is to have something to look forward 
to, and we most of us live in the future. Georgie was no ex- 
ception to the general rule, and once she felt that Clint was 
really coming to the hotel for over a month, she was no longer 
at the mercy of the passing days, and her rather husky little 
voice raised itself in song as she went about the house. Another 
excitement was provided for her, and brought with it a real 
thrill, for the Duncarrigs were giving an afternoon party to 
which every one in Ardclare was invited, and Georgie took an 
anxious thought about the dress she was to wear. 

Even in Ardclare, clothes were a prohibitive price, and the 
thought of getting anything from Madame Murphy was hope- 
lessly out of the question. Every one was busy getting some- 
thing new for the occasion, and Miss White became suddenly 
reckless and went off to Cork, returning with a wonderful crea- 
tion the cost of which was little short of staggering. 

“I owe it to Lady Duncarrig,” she said, but Mrs. Francis 
Dykes remarked acidly, that she owed, and was likely to go on 
owing for it, to the shop where it was bought. 

Amid so much magnificence, Georgie felt that she would cut 
rather a sorry figure, but it did not trouble her over much. She 
had discovered that attraction is a queer, subtle attribute, and is 
independent of wrappings — if you have enough of it. Behind 
the allure of well-made clothes there was a need for something 
further. Even to be beautiful was not at all sufficient, or to 
have a conquering air; success in these things defeats any 
attempt at explanation, so she put on her shabby little “best,” 
with the hat which originally affronted Clint, and set off with 
Dada. 

Lady Duncarrig had decided to do the thing thoroughly when 
she gave her party. She regarded it as a penance which had to 
be performed, and on this occasion she left no one out, not even 
Mr. Finney, who had never been inside Ardclare; and she stood 
near the door of the large drawing-room and shook hands with 
her guests, her eyes upon some point just over their heads, so 

46 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


47 

that they received the impression of being greeted by a rather 
successful wax work from Madame Tussaud’s. 

Tea, coffee, and refreshments of a light kind were provided 
in the dining-room, and Lady Duncarrig felt that once she had 
welcomed her guests, if such a word can be used in such a con- 
nection, the least they could do was to carry-on for themselves. 
There were so many of them, and the crush was so great, that 
no special treatment could be expected by individuals, though 
Miss White found a chair close to where Lady Duncarrig stood, 
and constituted herself a kind of second hostess. She signalled 
to any arrivals whom she wished to encourage and asked them 
if they had seen Lord Duncarrig, adding that, “Tea was in the 
dining-room,” so that many of them felt she was an accredited 
deputy, and as the afternoon wore on, and Lady Duncarrig left 
her post at the drawing-room door. Miss White herself received 
late-comers, and said that Lady Duncarrig wished them to be 
told that “Tea was in the dining-room.” In this way the occa- 
sion was one of her greatest successes, and when Lord Duncarrig 
eventually wandered towards her, like a lost sheep, and took her 
in to tea himself, she was fully rewarded for her defiant gamble* 
in clothes, particularly as Duncarrig said in his hearty way that 
she was the best-dressed woman in the room. 

Georgie and Mr. Desmond arrived punctually, and Lady 
Duncarrig received her with a further elevation of her eyes 
and a more limp touch of her hand, and when Mr. Desmond 
hesitated and appeared anxious to say something, she passed 
him and his daughter onwards immediately, like a good juggler 
disposing of cards in a card trick. Miss White greeted them 
cordially, and said she was glad to see them, and then they were 
amalgamated in the throng beyond. They knew almost every 
one present, and nearly all the clergymen who had been at the 
clerical meeting were already there, so they forsook their wives 
and daughters and gathered into a knot, where they talked and 
laughed rather aimlessly, for, truth to tell, no one knew exactly 
what they were expected to do next. 

Having lost Dada, who was engaged in a discussion with a 
neighbouring archdeacon, Georgie looked around her, and 
recognised Mr. Finney, alone and rather forlorn. A dread 
seized her that he would certainly attach himself to her, and 
she deliberately made her way in the opposite direction, taking 
cover in a window seat, where she was out of the way. She felt 
that it could only be a matter of moments before Clint would 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


48 

find her, and the real pleasure of the party begin. She saw him 
easily, as he was well over the heads of most of the crowd, and 
she noticed, with a smile, that Veronica was not far off. Miss 
Stuart was gorgeously dressed in velvet and fur, and Georgie 
admitted at once that she looked her best. 

Georgie stood up almost involuntarily, and Clint caught her 
eye and gave her a discreet smile. Then she sat down again. 
He knew now where she was. Soon he would come and find her, 
so she turned her face from the room and prayed that Milson or 
Mr. Finney would not run her to earth, as she watched the yel- 
low leaves driven along the wintry paths outside. A few 
Michaelmas daisies still kept a brave show, but for the most 
part the garden was dark and rather desolate, under a heavy 
grey sky. 

It occurred to her after a time that Clint was taking ages to 
get to her, and she began to drop slowly from the golden glories 
of her first mood. The crowd in the room was thinning as people 
took Miss White’s advice and went to the dining-room for tea, 
and there was now no sign of Clint anywhere, nor of Veronica. 
Lady Duncarrig had left the room also, and Mr. Finney was 
terribly obvious as he sat and looked at a book in an isolated 
corner. 

Should she stir, Georgie knew that she must fall into his 
hands, and a wretched feeling of pity towards him would make 
it impossible for her to shake him off. Ho one, not even Miss 
White, had asked him to go and have tea, and he was far too 
shy to proceed upon his own initiative. 

Georgie felt suddenly as though she might cry. It was 
ridiculous to be left like this, and Clint knew perfectly well 
where to find her. Perhaps he was having to be polite to some 
one; but Georgie felt, deep in her heart, that such was not the 
case. He was not the man to sacrifice himself to duty. How 
could it be accounted for ? She could not bear to think of being, 
taken into the dining-room by Finney, and perhaps meeting 
Clint on his way to her. The situation demanded patience. 1 % 
was stupid to put on your best clothes and go to a party, just 
to be hidden away in a window and not get so much as a sugared 
cake out of it all. She could not believe that Clint did not 
mean to come, so she set her teeth and waited. 

At length Mr. Finney laid down his book, looked at the 
scattered groups who still remained in the drawing-room and 
with the air of a man whose choice is flight, went swiftly 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


49 

through the drawing-room door. He knew it to be bad man- 
ners to leave a party without saying good-bye to your hostess, 
but he had got past caring. 

It was a relief to see him leave, but it in no way altered the 
problem of Georgie’s own conduct. To be exactly where you 
are expected to be is one of the surest ways of being found by 
some one who wants to find you; Georgie knew that, as she 
drifted into a sense of despair, and she began to experience a 
pang of ill-usage from her world. She forgot that if you de- 
liberately hide behind a curtain, even the most faithful may 
conclude that you are not there at all, and the original density 
of the crowd had made recognition difficult. But Clint knew. 
Clint had smiled that queer, suppressed smile which at the 
moment had seemed to infer so much, and then he had left her 
alone. 

Georgie had made up her mind to wait no longer when a 
man whom she had never seen before came into the room. She 
was not prepossessed by his appearance, for he was not “dash- 
ing.” He wore quiet and ordinary grey clothes, and his face 
was weather-beaten and hard. She missed the fact that he was 
remarkable, and that he had expressive eyes and a firm, clever 
mouth, and when he wandered to the window where she sat, he 
almost walked over her feet before he was aware that she existed. 
Having become aware of her, he apologised and looked away 
from her at once. 

“They seem to have a nice garden,” he said. 

“Indeed, yes,” Georgie replied. She was a little in awe of 
the new-comer, now that he stood there, and felt that he was not 
the sort of man she could talk to. 

“Had tea ?” he inquired. 

“Indeed, no,” Georgie admitted. 

“Come on, then.” He turned away. “IPs hard fighting, but 
it can be done.” 

She followed him humbly through the room and into the hall, 
which was full of people. 

It was just Georgie’s luck that they should meet Lady Dun- 
carrig, who immediately looked away as though she had been 
stung, but her new acquaintance did not appear to take any 
notice as he led on with awful directness towards a corner 
where Clint was standing by Veronica Stuart’s chair. She 
was one of the few people who were seated, and there was a 
vacant chair beside her. 


50 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


“There you are,” the strange man said, and Georgie sat down 
helplessly. He had gone to get her tea, and Clint spoke awk- 
wardly, while Miss Stuart turned a most deliberate back towards 
her. 

“How do you do, Miss Desmond?” 

Georgie turned and smiled. She was quick to forgive, and, 
after all, it probably was not his fault. 

“How do I do, is it? Whisper, Captain Clint, whoever on 
earth is the gentleman who brought me here?” 

“Lousada,” Clint said, and Veronica got up and touched 
his arm. 

“Time to move,” she said, with a laugh which jarred Georgie’s 
nerves hatefully. “Come.” 

Clint hesitated for a second and looked at Georgie, but he 
did not speak, neither did he seem to wish to. She watched 
him go, and somehow the whole thing hurt and humbled her. 
Xady Duncarrig had been almost rude to Dada when he wanted 
to speak a few simple words of politeness, and now Clint, who 
was her ideal of all that a man should be, was certainly anxious 
to escape from her. As for Miss Stuart, she had added what 
she could to the overpowering effect of social failure. Her eyes 
were full of her sorrows when Lousada came back to her, and 
as no one was sitting on the empty chair, he sat down and 
■crossed his legs and looked before him. 

“Don’t you never drink tea?” she asked tremulously. He 
had terrifying manners, and she was half afraid to speak. 

“No,” he replied. “What happened to the people who were 
here?” 

“Is it Clint and Miss Stuart? They cleared out — I suppose 
on account of myself” 

Lousada turned and looked at her, and then he laughed with 
a most surpassing touch of pleasure. 

“How extremely funny,” he said. “How did you do it?” 

“She doesn’t like me.” 

“Oh? And Clint?” 

Georgie blushed furiously, and her teaspoon clattered to the 
floor. 

“He’s fearfully good-looking,” she replied. 

"I suppose that’s the right answer, though it doesn’t seem 
to have anything to say to it,” he said, recovering the teaspoon. 

“It’s so hard to understand things,” Georgie remarked ab- 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 51 

sently, and her face grew tragic. “Tell you the truth. I’ve been 
saying to myself that I’d better have stayed at home.” 

“Don’t you like parties?” Lousada still appeared to be 
amused, and she felt irritated to think he regarded her as a joke. 
“Neither do I.” 

“We were asked because she had t’ask us.” 

“Who are ‘we’ ?” he said, watching her. 

“Dada and myself. He is the Rector of Ardclare, and we live 
in the Rectory at the top of the town.” 

“Ah, I see. But why did you come?” 

Again Georgie flushed uncomfortably. “Oh, we had to,” she 
said, and her eyes travelled to the door. Even yet Clint might 
return and make good, taking her away from this very alarm- 
ing “friend” she had made for herself. 

“You couldn’t have had to,” he objected. “You might have 
made an excuse.” 

“But Dada has to,” she said vaguely. “It’s part of being a 
clergyman.” 

“And you had to see him through. I see. Where is your 
father?” 

“He and th’ Archdeacon are somewhere,” she replied. “You 
see, Dada doesn’t notice. Now, I notice at once.” 

“Yes?” He looked away again. 

“Lady Dun gave me an awful look just now,” Georgie said 
anxiously. 

“And was that why you hid in the window curtains ?” 

Again Georgie’s colour flooded up to her forehead, and Mr. 
Lousada showed mercy. 

“Look here,” he said, “I’ll give you some advice, a thing I 
very seldom do, and I don’t expect you to take it. Never do 
anything you don’t want to.” 

“Don’t you ?” she asked, awestruck at the idea. 

“Certainly not.” He smiled half to himself, and almost as 
he spoke Georgie caught sight of Clint returning to the dining- 
room without Veronica Stuart. Her heart beat with suffocating 
rapidity, and her eyes shone. It meant so much that he should 
come even at the eleventh hour and take away the dreadful feel- 
ing of having been neglected and passed by. 

Lousada watched her again, and his eyes travelled on to 
Clint, who came with no uncertain step to where they sat, 
and then at once he got up and walked away, without saying 
another word to Georgie Desmond. 


52 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


“Well, of all the strangers!” Georgie raised her eyes raptur- 
ously to Clint’s face. “We’d nearly want to be introduced all 
over again.” 

“It’s all right about the hotel,” he said. “I’ve got rooms. 
Awful pokey little hole, but good enough. By the way, I found 
Mr. Desmond, who had got marooned in the library ; he wants to 
go home.” 

“He’ll not mind,” Georgie said quickly. “Sit down, and we’ll 
talk.” 

But Clint did not sit down; he only put a hand on the back 
of a chair. 

“How did you get on with Lousada?” he asked. 

“I don’t know. He’s queer, I think. Fearfully clever, I 
s’pose ?” 

“I don’t like him,” Clint replied carelessly, and Georgie felt 
that, as far as she was concerned, Mr. Lousada was down and 
under. 

“For all that, I might have had no tea at all if it hadn’t been 
for him.” She looked a little reproachful. “He found me in the 
window. It wasn’t such fun there, all alone, looking out at the 
garden.” 

“I couldn’t help it.” Clint spoke with some irritation. “It’s 
not always possible to do just what one likes. Lady Duncarrig 
asked me to look after people.” 

“And it was Miss Stuart you chose?” 

“Don’t be a silly little goose, Georgie.” He smiled at her and 
bent down confidentially. “If I could have got to you I would 
have. You know that.” 

She was not critical, and she really believed that she did know 

it. y 

“I’ll forgive you this once,” she replied. “Not that you de- 
serve it, Eustace.” 

He stood up again and reviewed the room with an amused 
glance. People were still having tea, with the desperation of 
men and women who must be doing something. 

“What a queer crowd,” he said, and somehow his words 
touched her loyalty to her own, even though her own were in 
the habit of rending her in pieces. 

“Are they very grand where you come from?” she asked, 
with a touch of hostility. “No laughing-stocks at all? I 
wonder, now.” 

“Of course they are different,” he said casually. “To begin 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 53 

with, they wear decent clothes.” He had not meant to hurt 
her, and really he felt that she was attractive enough to dress 
in a sack, but the shot told. 

“D’you suppose anyone dresses badly for choice?” she asked 
in a low voice, dropping her eyes suddenly. “In England every 
one’s rich, I’m told, and so it’s small thanks to them.” 

Clint looked down at her bent head, and the pathetic hat, 
some of the trimming of which was already coming to pieces, 
and was furious with himself. His stupid criticism had hurt 
her, and how was he to withdraw ? But he had learnt the ways 
of a passable courtier long ago, and he knew he could do pretty 
well what he liked with Georgie. 

“They need it all,” he said, and he touched her arm with a 
quick, encouraging movement of his hand. “An Irish girl is 
admittedly the most perfect thing God ever made.” 

“You laugh at us,” she answered, still keeping her head bent, 
“and look down on us, because we’re different from you.” 

“So much the better. No one wants you to change.” 

Georgie rallied her spirits, and looked up again. 

“Surely to goodness I know that,” she said. “And now, what 
about Dada ? I’d best be making ready to have another grasp of 
icicles from Lady Dun.” 

“When shall I see you?” he asked. 

“When they clear out, I s’pose.” 

“Not for three days, Georgie? Three days is a long time.” 

She gave him a long look, which was duly noted by Mrs. 
Francis Dykes, who was having her third and final tea. 

“Georgie intends to run her usual rig with that Captain 
Clint,” she remarked to her neighbour. “The way that girl 
hunts men is something scandalous.” 

Mrs. Sharkey, a young woman who had married only and 
obviously for money, replied with a high scream of laughter. 
Sharkey had shown a strong liking for Gegrgie during the 
courting days, and she had never forgiven her. 

“She’s mad about men,” she said, hardly troubling to lower 
her voice to discretion point. “If she gets Finney in the end, 
she’ll be lucky.” 

They watched Georgie go out of the room with Clint, and fell 
to vigorously exhuming all her past misdeeds. In their eyes 
she was a reckless flirt, whose main attraction lay in the fact 
that she was “fast.” If you were “fast” you could collect a 
following anywhere, and if you were not “fast” you might 


54 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


easily be hard put to it to have enough partners for a dance 
programme. Lucy Carter joined them. She was well over 
thirty and had never been a subject of gossip, so that she could 
throw any quantity of stones. Certainly there seemed little 
hope of salvation for poor Georgie Desmond. 

“She’ll get left,” Lucy Carter said with animation. 

“And serve her right. It’s the price of her,” added Mrs. 
Francis Dykes, while Mrs. Sharkey repeated the assertion that 
Georgie was “mad about men.” 

Happily unconscious of what was being said of her, Georgie 
went into the hall and discovered Mr. Desmond sitting on a 
chair looking lonely and tired. Her conscience smote her, and 
she hurried up' to him. 

“Dada, I’m a wretch, amn’t I? To go leave you like this. 
Come along home, now.” 

“Where have you been, Georgie?” he asked. “I have not 
seen you at all. You ought not to go away. People remark 
upon it.” 

“I was in a window for a bit, and then a gentleman asked me 
to come to tea,” she said. “But Captain Clint ” 

Mr. Desmond got up, and interrupted her at once, and 
Georgie turned to see that Clint had gone. She wished he had 
not, and that he had remained until the ordeal of once again 
being ignored by Lady Dun was over, but there was no getting 
out of it, and Lord Duncarrig caught sight of them as he was 
stifling a yawn at the drawing-room door. 

“We’ve come to say good-bye to Lady Duncarrig,” Georgie 
said, and he looked around the vast room. 

“She doesn’t seem to be here,” he replied. “Never mind; I 
will tell her. I hope you had a good time?” 

Georgie smiled and felt tremendously relieved. “Oh, the 
grandest !” she said enthusiastically. 

“And you, Rector? I hope you were well looked after?” 

“Thank you, I was. It was all very pleasant,” Mr. Desmond 
said dolefully. “A delightful gathering, Lord Duncarrig. We 
are all very grateful for your hospitality.” 

“If some of them would only go,” Lord Duncarrig thought, 
“all the rest might follow.” He helped Mr. Desmond into his 
coat, and the archdeacon began from afar to collect his wife 
and large family, as a sense of coming departure made itself 
felt through the crowd of guests. 

“Are you driving? No?” Lord Duncarrig asked as they stood 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


55 


at the door. “IPs a nice windy evening. No rain, I hope. 
No?” He smiled again at Georgie, and felt he would have liked 
to give her a paternal kiss, only what would Alicia have said? 
“Georgie is a great favourite of mine, Mr. Desmond,” he said, 
as he walked on to the steps in the high, tearing wind and the 
soft darkness. “I suppose we shall all dance at her wedding 
one day soon. Dear me, I remember her as a tiny thing.” 

But Mr. Desmond made no reply; he only thanked Lord 
Duncarrig again for his kindness, and Georgie tucked her arm 
into his and led him away. 

“Several people asked where you were. Finney was looking 
for you,” Mr. Desmond said, and he coughed a hard, hacking 
cough. 

“Fm awfully sorry, Dada, but I was in the window.” 

“With that Captain Clint?” 

“No, Dada. All by myself.” 

Mr. Desmond had just been going to cough again, hut re- 
strained himself. 


CHAPTER VI 


The Duncarrigs left for London, and Ardclare felt their de- 
parture, in the sense that the rivalries their presence promoted 
had to cease, and Miss White was free to romance to her heart’s 
content on the subject of what had been. Her one invitation to 
dinner was multiplied several times, and she said that she was 
dreadfully lonely since dear Lady Duncarrig had gone, and 
hardly knew what to do with herself. 

No one really missed them at all, but certainly no one was so 
glad of their departure as Georgie Desmond, for Clint was a 
free man, and there had been a great deal of satisfaction in the 
surprise it occasioned to Mrs. Francis Dykes, when the news 
spread, that he was established at the hotel. He was after 
Georgie Desmond, of course, but that made nothing really 
secure. He hadn’t any idea of marrying her, and it was merely 
the result of her “fast” ways. So the county talked, and Miss 
White, ever a faithful friend, fought battle after battle on be- 
half of Georgie, whom she always regarded as a kind of spiritual 
stepdaughter. It was very grievous to her to think that Georgie 
was travelling along the road to spinsterhood, while both Mr. 
Finney and Milson Rogers might either of them provide her 
with a home, but she was a born romanticist, and she sometimes 
wondered if Captain Clint, whom she admired so much, might 
not really be falling in love with Georgie. 

It was known that he was rich, and that he had a place in 
England, and that he could certainly afford a wife; but when 
she spoke of this, Mrs. Sharkey laughed her to scorn. The idea 
of Georgie marrying a man who was richer than her own hus- 
band, to say nothing of his appearance and social status, was 
simply intolerable to her. 

Garryowen had recovered, and Georgie was hunting again, so 
that she frequently came late for choir practices, in a muddy 
and ecstatic condition, which raised a storm of wrath in the 
hearts of the choristers, and reduced poor Mr. Finney to de- 
spair. 

Still, Mr. Finney was aware of an ally. Mr. Desmond re- 

56 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


57 


mained friendly, and his invitations to supper did not fall away. 
Georgie was always the same when he did see her, and never 
put on any airs, though Mr. Finney believed, and was almost 
alone in his faith, that Clint was waiting his opportunity to 
marry her and take her away for ever from Ardclare and a 
little house which had seemed so suitable for a young couple. 

He had seen them riding back from a day’s hunting, talking 
and laughing together, and his own courage faltered, but the 
knowledge that the unspoken approval of Georgie’s father 
backed him made him cling steadily to his dream. He did not 
hear the general talk, because he was rather on the outer fringe 
of Ardclare society, and only the more democratic took any 
notice of him; but he had a lover’s eye, and he knew that 
Clint was a rival. 

As for Georgie, she was indifferent to talk or warnings. Clint 
had fastened on her imagination, and become the Prince Charm- 
ing of her fairy story. He made love to her whenever oppor- 
tunity offered, and she drifted. Even Milson Rogers did not 
try any longer to accompany them home along the wonderful, 
mysterious roads after dark. She grew sentimental, and when 
Mr. Finney sang to her, or she sang to him, she felt a mist 
before her eyes. Clint was the sum total of her whole heart’s 
store, and she looked out at strange faces over the rainbow ring 
which encircled her. 

Only Dada held his former power; and in a way it was aug- 
mented by her emotion for Clint. Dada was unhappy, and her 
happiness made him so. He coughed a great «deal, and when 
she came in late to the choir practices, or Clint was found 
sitting with her in the drawing-room, he said nothing, but the 
lines in his face grew deeper than before, and she knew that it 
was all her fault. 

He approved of Finney, and continually invited him to the 
rectory. Finney’s habit of saying “Ta” was no longer a pleas- 
ing eccentricity which amused her, because, one dreadful day, 
he and Clint met in the drawing-room, and when Mr. Finney 
had gone Clint positively stormed at her. Why could she not 
see what an intolerable outsider the wretched young man was? 
He had lost his temper badly, and told her never to allude to 
“gentlemen” or “ladies”; that in civilised circles these words 
were obsolete, and were only now used by people who themselves 
were neither. Georgie knew in a flash that, sometimes, she too 
must appear nearly as awful as Mr. Finney in the eyes of 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


58 

Eustace Clint. She had been miserable for days, but though 
she felt it to be unfair of Clint and rather mean in herself, 
she could not again regard Mr. Finney without criticism. All 
this made the existing difficulties between her and her father 
more intense. 

Mr. Desmond never said openly that he did not wish Clint to 
come so frequently to the house, nor did he directly inform 
Georgie that he wanted her to marry Finney; he only became 
more and more sad, and asked at intervals how much longer 
“this sort of thing” was to go on. 

“Is it Eustace coming here?” she asked one wild evening, 
as the old windows rattled in the storm and the trees outside 
groaned and creaked under the lash of the wind. 

“I’ve done my best for you,” Mr. Desmond said evasively. 
“You are a great care, Georgie.” 

“Dada !” She spoke pleadingly, and dropped the stocking she 
was darning. “You aren’t out with me over Eustace?” 

“Don’t talk nonsense,” he said angrily; “but there ought to 
be some reason in all things.” And then he took his prayer- 
book from his pocket and began to read a psalm, which, as it 
was earlier than usual, and not really time for evening prayers, 
showed that he did not wish to continue the conversation. 

Georgie sat on the side of her little bed and pondered over 
the question. Dada was so fond of her, she argued, that he 
naturally wished to see her happy, and there was every reason 
why he should be dissatisfied. Clint made love to her ; often his 
love-making was very fervent, so fervent that it frightened her 
and she retreated before it, but as yet he had never said a single 
word about marrying her. She hoped and even prayed that he 
would. It all meant so much, and to see him go, as he would 
go, unless he took her with him, would break her heart. And 
who would care ? 

Once or twice Clint had almost uttered the wonderful words, 
and then, somehow, he seemed to fight them back. She lay 
across her bed, her chin on her hands, thinking. If she chose 
to give Finney so much as a look, he would be at her feet. 
Finney, who had never dared to attempt to kiss her. Was that 
how things always went? Dada wanted her to marry Finney, 
and yet he could not really like such a pale, spotty-faced young 
man ; and life in a small house, on small means, in Ardclare did 
not offer exactly a bouquet of roses. Dada felt that Mr. Finney 
was good ; that explained it. If you were a clergyman the thing 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


59 

you must look for was goodness in your future son-in-law, and 
Clint was not good. Georgie knew that very well indeed. 

In the end she began to go over the pleasant episodes of the 
day, for Georgie never dwelt long on the troubled side of life, 
and she drifted off to sleep, when she had put out her candle 
by the simple process of wetting her fingers and pinching the 
wick, and dreamed that she and Clint, and Dada, were all sitting 
in a hayfield under a blue sky, and that there was a heavenly 
sense of peace everywhere, until Lousada looked round the hay- 
cock and repeated his remark : “Never do anything you do not 
really want to do.” 

Yet, in spite of all the doubts which assailed her, Georgie 
was very happy, and as Christmas grew nearer, Clint was reluct- 
antly dragged to the more frequent practices in the church, and 
Christmas Eve brought, in its coming, the usual decorations, 
which always meant a social gathering. Georgie gave them 
tea at the rectory, and the church was full of busy people, 
constructing wreaths and battling with huge boughs of holly. 

It was a cold little edifice, standing on the top of the hill, 
facing the dark mountain range. Inside, the building was 
typical of the worst phase of the Victorian period. The walls 
were coloured with pale-green distemper, and the seats square, 
cushioned with faded red rep. The general flavour of the 
place was middle-aged rather than old. Its memories were not 
remote, for Ardclare Church had a modem past, and its ghosts 
were the ghosts of everybody’s youth. 

But though it might be gloomy at other times, it was anything 
but desolate on Christmas Eve. Miss White decorated the font, 
turning it into the semblance of a holly bush, and was decently 
separated from her enemy, Mrs. Francis Dykes, who adorned the 
east window and was accused of grabbing the best things from 
the Ardclare conservatories to this end. There was a constant 
flow of chatter going on, and Milson Rogers made one of the 
party, though Georgie accused him of doing little else but steal 
grapes from the back of the opulent black bunches, which were 
there by order of Lady Duncarrig. 

Clint was hunting with a distant pack, and would only return 
just in time — if that — for the choir practice, and Georgie flung 
her restless energy into the work of making wreaths, and 
swathing the pulpit in red flannel bandages flecked with cotton 
wool. 


6o 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


“Lady Duncarrig specially wishes me to have the two pots of 
arums,” Miss White said from her place near the door, as Mrs. 
Francis Dykes was seen issuing orders that the coveted pots 
should be put at her end of the church; and then a bitter 
wrangle ensued, which only ended when the sexton nudged Miss 
White respectfully in the ribs, and remarked under his breath 
that she might leave it to him, and that he would see to it when 
Mrs. Dykes had gone home. 

How queer it all was, Georgie thought. She remembered so 
many Christmas decorations, mingled with the smell of branches 
of firs and the poignant sweetness of chrysanthemums. She 
always decorated the lectern, and she wondered for how many 
more years she would continue to go on doing the same things. 
She knew Dada’s Christmas sermon by heart, and could have 
preached it herself, if necessary, and she thought it very touch- 
ing and sweet. As her hands worked mechanically, she thought 
with a cold little sting of misery, that after New Year, Clint 
would go away. Would he really go without having said any- 
thing definite? 

“I’ve asked you twice for the scissors,” Milson Rogers said, 
in his loud voice. “Are you in love, Georgie? Or don’t you 
wash your ears ?” 

Georgie turned and laughed at him. “I was wondering what 
I’d get in the morning,” she said. “I love presents, Milson.” 

He thought of the neat little cutting whip he had bought for 
her, and his eyes softened slightly. Georgie was enough to vex 
a saint, but, somehow — somehow, one always forgave her. 

“You’ll get nothing from me,” he remarked. “Here, get up 
out of that, and I’ll fix the wreath.” 

“I have a grand cake inside,” Georgie said. “Made it myself. 
There’s a red rag and a blue rag, though as we don’t never 
meet sailors, that’s not much good.” 

“I have a cousin who is a Commander,” Lucy Carter spoke 
with some pride. 

“Glory ! Then that’ll be for you,” Georgie continued. “And 
a ring, Milson, and a thimble for th’old maid, and thrippence 
for the bachelor, which should be yourself.” 

“There’s heaps of girls would grab me,” Milson replied, “only 
I haven’t asked them yet.” 

“Waiting for them to ask you?” she retorted. “Well, I’ll not, 
for one.” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


61 


“You might get the crooked stick, yet, Georgie,” Mrs. Dykes 
interposed, standing back to admire the east window. 

“Meaning Milson?” Georgie replied with a stifled giggle. 

“I think its very bad manners to be laughing in church,” Miss 
White said solemnly. “I was always brought up to show re- 
spect. But nowadays, young people never show respect.” 

The church lamps were lighted, and at last the party crossed 
the road and invaded the rectory for tea, where Mr. Desmond 
received them and tried to make himself into a buffer between 
Mrs. Francis Dykes and Miss White, who showed unusual signs 
of fight, and the sugared cake was cut amid a terrific amount 
of noise, which was augmented by the fact that Milson nearly 
swallowed the thimble. 

“Holy pokers I What have I?” he said. “’Tis the thimble I 
ril give it a clean up and it will do for me grandmother.” 

Tea, in spite of the noise and laughter, seemed to Georgie 
to be interminable, and her roving eyes turned again and again 
to the clock. She began to fear that something had happened 
to Clint, and the thought was agony. Perhaps he was lying on 
a stretcher with a broken leg, perhaps he had broken his neck 
and was no longer in the same warm world with her. She felt 
an inward trembling, so fearful and ominous that she could not 
speak, and made some excuse to leave her guests and stand 
listening at the door. But still he did not come and she had to 
go back into the room where every one was laughing, and even 
Dada was making quite a lot of noise. 

Time is unchanging, in spite of our humours, and after a 
little, it was impossible to postpone the hour for the practice. 
Mr. Desmond grew fussy. He knew the acrid temper of his 
parishioners, and that the handful of children already waiting 
in the cold church would return with complaints against him. 
They knew what was due to them as Protestant children, and 
he hurried the party off, scolding Georgie at the door as they 
departed. 

The night outside the Rectory was intensely dark, and the 
sky curtained with heavy clouds. Directly the front door closed, 
people became invisible to one another, so that Mrs. Dykes and 
Miss White kept together in unwonted accord. 

Beyond, the church windows made a brave show, illuminated 
against the dark, and as Georgie walked up the shallow steps 
she was struck by a sense of something beautiful. Only the 
lamps in the chancel had been lighted, and the rest of the in- 


62 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


terior was sombre and mysterious. Here was the full sense of 
real Christmas, peace on earth. 

Mr. Einney was already there waiting with the rest, and very 
conscious of a box in his pocket containing two bottles of scent 
and a cake of soap, which he was going to present to Georgie; 
and with a buzz of lowered voices, the choir took out their 
copies of the anthem and prepared to sing. 

Would Clint never come, and was he dead? If he were, how 
was Georgie to go on as if nothing had happened? A memory 
of his passionate kisses came to her, and she struck a discord 
in a loud, unforgiving moan of sound. 

“We’ll begin with a hymn,” she said, turning on the reat and 
looking at Mr. Finney’s back. “It’ll get us into voice. First 
and last verses of ‘Brightest and Best.’ ” 

The choir responded vigorously, and Mrs. Dykes caused a dis- 
traction by singing the second verse while the others sang the 
last, so that the children were overcome with mirth and could 
not sing at all. 

When it was over Georgie looked down the dark aisle again, 
and the miserable feeling that everything was wrong submerged 
her. 

“The anthem,” she said, without turning. 

“For unto us a child is bom,” sang the bass, very lugubri- 
ously, as though they were anything but glad. “For unto us a 
Son is given,” shrilled the trebles in a shriek of coy astonish- 
ment, and then they joined in a contest, the trebles gaining per- 
ceptibly as the race continued. 

Georgie raised her hands from the notes. “Trebles two beats 
out, and some one is dragging” ; and so it began again. 

“And His Name shall be call-ed Wonderful,” boomed the head 
constable in an agitated solo. 

“Counsellor,” Mr. Finney responded in a throaty tenor, “the 
Everlasting Fawther . . .” 

Georgie had lifted her hands again, and Mr. Finney forged 
ahead for a moment, and came to a blushing and discomforted 
conclusion as Clint, in a mud-stained red coat and a crumpled 
stock made his way towards the choir. 

Georgie felt as though, from having sat in a vault, she had 
been taken and plunged into a ret hot sea, and she lost her head 
for a moment, as she watched him come, looking so beautiful 
in her eyes ; and all the choir watched with her. 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 63 

‘Tm awfully sorry,” lie said, without any real conviction of 
sin in his easy, resounding voice. “Am I too late ?” 

“Better late than never,” Georgie replied, her hands shaking 
and deprived of power. “Get out your copy, Captain Clipt, and 
fit yourself in somewhere.” She felt she must get time in which 
to grow calm again, or she would make the organ scream so 
wildly that even Mrs. Francis Dykes would realise that some- 
thing was wrong with it. 

He took his place close beside her, so that she was tremen- 
dously aware of him, and there was a shuffling of feet and 
whispered remarks. 

“We have to get home to-night,” Milson said in a stormy 
voice. “Get a move on yourself, Georgie.” 

“For unto us,” she said, and her voice was stifled and had a 
quaver in it. 

At last it was over, and the choir slipped away, wishing each 
other a happy Christmas; poor Mr. Finney waiting desperately, 
the box clutched in perspiring h&nds. 

“A little memento,” he said, as he was the last left in the 
chancel, except for Clint, who was evidently going to see Georgie 
home. 

“Is it a present? How lovely,” Georgie took it from him. 
“Will I guess what’s in it, or shall I wait? I don’t know if I 
can wait till to-morrow to open it.” But Mr. Finney had 
already departed. “And I haven’t as much as a card for him,” 
she said regretfully. “I might get one in the morning that 
would do for him. Isri t he good ?” 

“I expect so,” Clint said drily. “Why do you encourage him ?” 

“I? What?” 

“Encourage him. You always do. You were ridiculous just 
now, and of course he thinks you are pleased.” 

“Well, so I am. Wouldn’t you be pleased if any person was 
as kind as all that ?” 

“It’s absolutely wrong,” he said, and his face looked sullen. 
“Making a fuss over some wretched little box of rubbish. It’s 
outrageous that the fellow thought he might give you a present.” 

Georgie’s eyes grew round, and she remembered the many 
presents she had received, including the gold wristwatch she 
wore, which Simon had given her exactly a year ago. 

“I don’t mind your being glad to make him happy, if that 
was all,” Eustace continued. “But I believe you really are 
excited, yourself, about it.” 


64 A RECKLESS PURITAN 

“Well, Pm not now,” she said sorrowfully. “I don’t want it 
any more.” 

At that he relented, and he helped her on with her coat. 

“I am fearfully jealous,” he said, catching her elbows. “You 
drive me mad, Georgie, and often, I wish I had never seen 
you” 

“Is that to please me?” she looked at him. “The sexton is 
watching us, he’s fearfully particular, Eustace, and we mustn’t 
wait idling here. You are coming to dinner to-morrow night. 
Don’t forget that.” 

“I shall not,” he spoke again with the same intensity. 
ordered a tiny little thing for you myself. It ought to reach 
you in the morning. With my love, Georgie.” 

They were on the path outside the church, and the dark 
clouds had broken, showing great drifts of stars overhead. 

“All of it, or only a bit?” she asked. 

“All of it.” 

He caught her in his arms and kissed her on the mouth. She 
had knitted him a silk tie, which had cost her all her yearly 
present from an old cousin, for pocket-money she had none, 
and Dada was not easy to approach for current expenses. Clint 
would find it on his hot water can in the morning; she had 
left it, with instructions, at the hotel. 

“Will you miss me?” he asked as they walked on. 

“I will,” she replied, and again a surge of misery overtook 
her. 

“Not half as much as I shall miss you. But we won’t talk 
about that yet.” 

“You aren’t going until New Year?” she said urgently. 

“The first of January,” he answered. “I’ve had to fix that 
date for certain.” 

Georgie said nothing. There was no use going forth to meet 
one’s troubles, for troubles had a way of coming along of them- 
selves at a steady, inevitable pace. There were still five days of 
joy, and five days which must not be marred by the shadow 
of fate. But she knew now that Clint did not mean anything. 

She came in late for supper, but Mr. Desmond did not notice 
it, and she laid Finney’s gift on the table. There were a number 
of other presents waiting for her, and she opened them without 
enthusiasm, though she displayed them to Dada with appropriate 
exclamations. 

Attached to the cutting whip there was a card which depicted 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


65 

a flushed lady in a tight blue habit riding a carthorse over an 
impossible six-barred gate, and underneath, the words “The 
Pride of the Hunt.” Milson must have taken a lot of trouble 
to get such a lovely picture, and she laid it aside with a sigh, 
nor did she take the stoppers out of the bottles of “Chypre” and 
“Jessamine,” which represented, she knew, wild extravagance 
on the part of Mr. Finney. 

“Very nice, very nice,” Mr. Desmond said, handling the 
bottles absently. “Did the practice go well ?” he inquired. 

“It went off fine,” Georgie said, her eyes on the litter of paper 
and string. Clint’s present was still to come, but she was dull 
and not full of her usual anticipation of joy. 


CHAPTER Vn 


The Christmas dinner was less of a failure than it might have 
been, and Georgie wore the pearl pendant that arrived in a case, 
duly registered, from a London jeweller’s. Georgie had the 
courage of a true gambler, and was able to fend off future ills, 
contriving to “cut the rope which was nearest the throat ” ; and, 
as she sat at the head of the untidy-looking dinner-table, while 
Dada carved the turkey, she was happy. Nor did she allow Mr. 
Einney to feel out of it, though he was uncomfortably aware 
that his blue serge was contrasting desperately badly with Clint’s 
expensive-looking evening clothes. 

Yes, it had gone off well, and th© Stephen’s Day meet had 
been another joyful occasion when Georgie had really dis- 
tinguished herself in a run over an exceptionally stiff line of 
country. The last days had been the best and sweetest of many 
good days, and it was only on the thirty-first of December that 
she suddenly plunged deep in a slough of despond. Reality 
caught her violently, and she awoke to tears which had to be 
smothered and held back. 

Clint was to spend his last evening at the Rectory, and 
providence, working through remote contingencies, arranged 
that they should be alone, because Miss White’s disreputable 
brother lay dying, and was very uneasy as to his future state. 
Miss White arrived at the Rectory and fetched Mr. Desmond 
just after supper was finished, sweeping him off tragically to do 
what he could to support her brother in his last hours. 

“He is very repentant,” she said tearfully, “now that he knows 
that recovery is out of the question.” 

“We must all die,” Mr. Desmond said, his usual gloom intensi- 
fied. “And, indeed, it may be regarded as a blessed release for 
some of us.” He looked at Georgie, who stood pale and alarmed 
by the open door. “If it were not for Georgie, I should be glad 
to go and meet my Maker to-night, in your brother’s place.” 

Two tears coursed down Georgie’s cheeks. It was so hard 
on Dada that he could not even die comfortably, because of 
her; and she stood in the bleak night watching the bobbing light 

66 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


67 

of Miss White’s lantern, wondering if death was as awful as it 
sounded, and why, when it was the common lot, no one seemed 
to believe in it until the very last moment. When Clint left, she 
would wish herself dead with real conviction. Even now she 
thought she would be divinely happy if she knew that she was to 
fall into that strange gulf, when their lips met for the last time. 

It never occurred to her to think that he was treating her 
badly, and that, for his fleeting pleasure, he had made her ‘‘the 
talk of the world.” She was entirely uncritical, and her love 
blinded her to all facts other than her glorified ideal of an ordi- 
nary, and well-turned-out young man. 

He came upon her as she waited, chilled and weary, at the 
open door, and stood watching her silently. “I’m feeling pretty 
wretched,” he said, gripping her hand. 

“Same here,” she replied with a watery smile as he followed 
her into the house. “’Twill be all one, in a hundred years, I 
s’pose.” 

“Georgie, I’ve never done you any harm,” he said earnestly, 
and she did not remind him that if he had not, it was only be- 
cause she drew a very decided line between what was lawful and 
what was not, in her eyes. “At least I have never been cad 
enough to give you cause to hate me, later on.” 

“I’d never hate you,” she said, fighting back her tears desper- 
ately. “We’ve had a good old time, and now it’s over.” 

“I’ll come back next winter,” he replied. “We can look for- 
ward to that, darling.” 

Georgie made a pretence of belief. One had to pretend just to 
cover up the nakedness of stark facts. 

“I’ve never met anyone like you.” He kissed her again and 
again. “Most girls would think . . he stumbled over the 
words. “I mean it’s so hard on you.” 

“The best of friends must part,” she said. “Why would I 
make it any worse, Eustace ?” 

“You won’t forget me, and you’ll wear that little pendant?” 

“Always.” A sob caught her tired voice. 

The clock was ticking the time away relentlessly, and she 
prayed that Miss White’s brother would take pattern by King 
Charles the Second, and be an unconscionable time in dying. 

Words failed Clint, and he held her silently in his arms. He 
was unusually quiet and silent, and it was as though his own 
heaviness held him from speech. Once, he had thought the little 
room ugly and over-crowded, and that Georgie’s surroundings 


68 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


were hopelessly crude. They had offended his eye, and he 
laughed at them, and now they had become familiar and even 
dear. They sat on an old broken-down sofa, covered with dingy 
chintz, and the lamp in a brass stand smelt villainously. He 
was never going to sit there again, and yet she had not uttered 
one murmur of reproach. Old scenes came back to him. He 
had not kept out of marriage without making a fight, and there 
were others who had suffered at his hands in a way which 
Georgie had not . . . He kissed her again. “You won’t marry 
that awful fellow Finney ?” he said. “I should hate it, if I hear 
you have.” 

“Finney? Is it poor Finney?” 

“Yes, promise me you’ll never marry him.” 

“I’d never do it from choice.” 

“But you can't mean that you’d let your father force you 
into it. It would be infamous if he did.” 

“Dada’d not force me. He’s awfully gentle,” she said piti- 
fully. “It’s natural that he’s worried about me.” 

Clint glared furiously in front of him over Georgie’s bent 
head. He had no illusions about Mr. Desmond whatever, and 
regarded him as a monster in clerical garb. 

“He knows how to work on your feelings,” he said passion- 
ately. “Don’t let him, sweetheart ; it’s damnably unfair.” 

“You don’t know a thing about Dada,” she said in a muffled 
voice, “and you’re angry because he didn’t never like you, 
Eustace.” 

“And he likes Finney? My dear child, if your father thought 
I was . . .” again he stopped, it was too blunt a thing to say 
to her. 

“He knows that he is very good,” she said, “and he thinks you 
aren’t a saint. He’s quite right there, you can give that away 
to him, Eustace, and don’t be vexed about it.” 

“If he imagined I had a wedding ring in my pocket, he 
wouldn’t care whether I was a saint or not,” were the words 
which rose to Clint’s lips, but he did not speak them. She be- 
lieved in Mr. Desmond, and, after all, it had nothing to do with 
him. He was leaving Ardclare in the morning, and never in- 
tended to return. Logically he should have had no grievance, 
but for all that, the grievance was there. 

“Dada’s a good judge of character,” she went on with an 
attempt at a laugh. 

“Do you know that it’s time I went away?” he said, and 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


69 

he kissed her eyes, the salt taste of tears on his lips. “Georgie, 
Georgie, I swear I never guessed it was going to be so hard for 
us both.” 

She said nothing, but clung to him helplessly, and he held her 
in his arms as they stood on the shabby old hearthrug. 

“Don’t be worrying,” she spoke in a low voice. “When people 
have to live through things, they get through all right.” Once 
again he held her close and kissed her white little face and 
closed eyes. 

“You do love me, Georgie?” He simply could not let her off 
or make it any easier for her. 

“With my heart — oh, my dearest love,” she sobbed, breaking 
under his appeal. “Surely, I do.” 

And then Mr. Desmond’s latchkey sounded its clicking sound 
in the lock of the front door, and they drew apart. 

Clint recovered himself quickly, out of long practice, but 
Georgie was white a*nd her hair looked wild, as her father opened 
the door and came in. He gave a hasty glance at them both, 
and then greeted Clint with averted eyes. 

“I came round to say good-bye, sir,” Clint said in his usual 
tones. “I’m off by the early train.” 

“Ah, is that so? Well, I will not detain you.” 

“How is Mr. White?” Georgie asked; she had been bending 
-over the fire, and she still attended to it. 

“He has gone to give an account of the deeds done in the 
body,” Mr. Desmond said in a dry, harsh voice. 

“Poor Miss White,” Georgie found a crumpled little wisp of 
a pocket handkerchief. “It’s fearfully sad.” 

“It is a very solemn and awful thought,” her father replied, 
and Clint held out his hand awkwardly. 

“I must thank you for your kindness while I was here,” he 
said, taking Mr. Desmond’s cold fingers. 

“Say good-bye to Captain Clint, Georgie, and I will see him 
to the door,” Mr. Desmond said, turning to his daughter, and 
Georgie held out her hand, forcing herself to smile. 

“Good luck,” she said, “and good times to you. Don’t be 
sea-sick crossing the Channel.” 

Clint took her hand but he could think of nothing to say, for 
though Mr. Desmond stood at the door with his back to them, he 
felt that he was being watched. 

“Good-bye,” he said lamely, and he walked from the room. 

A moment later, Georgie heard the front door bang, and 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


70 

Mr. Desmond rattled a heavy chain. It was as though he had 
shut out hope and love and happiness, and yet it was certainly 
not Dada’s fault. 

She turned out the lamp, and kissing her father, who did not 
speak to her, went quietly up to bed. 

That Georgie had swollen eyes, and a splitting headache, in 
addition to a sense of acute anguish in her heart, did not alter 
the fact that she had to go about things as usual on the following 
day. 

Life has to be gone on with, even if one envied such as Mr. 
White, who had got done with it for good ; and by early dinner- 
time Mr. Desmond was forced into speech. He did not admit 
that he noticed anything, but he harangued Georgie upon the 
rashness and folly of her acts. She had no sense whatever, and 
she filled his life with anxiety and distress. No girl with any 
sense of proper pride would allow the attentions of undesirable 
admirers. But before he had concluded, Milson Rogers arrived 
with a message from Miss White, who wanted Mr. Desmond at 
once. 

The cook was showing an undue amount of grief at her 
brother’s death, and Miss White had to lock her out of the 
room where he lay. As she was the one person who really sor- 
rowed for Mr. White, Georgie thought it was unexpectedly 
cruel of his sister, but then it was considered shocking, and she 
was not supposed to know anything about it; so she did not 
venture to speak. 

Milson gave her one very straight look, and grew angry at 
once, sniffing contemptuously. 

“When will you give over that kind of donkey polo, Georgie? 
Turning decent men against you’s what you’re doing,” he said, 
as Mr. Desmond went to put on his coat. 

Georgie looked at the dirty plates and the crumbs on the table 
before her. 

“I can take care of myself,” she said. “Don’t scold me. Mil- 
son.” 

“And a nice record he has,” Milson went on savagely. “I 
heard a few things about him from a fella’ in the cavalry, who 
was after Fanny-Clara, and came to try her last Wednesday. 
He said that Clint had once been in a divorce case, and let down 
the woman concerned, badly.” 

Georgie got up, her cheeks flaming. “I’ll not hear him spoken 
of like that,” she said. “I won’t listen.” She put her hands 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 71 

over her ears. “He and I are friends, and you can talk to some 
one else; there’s plenty in Ardclare will welcome you.” 

“What’s all this ?” Mr. Desmond said, appearing at the door, 
muffled to the chin and ready for the drive. 

“Georgie and me having a bit of an argument,” Milson said, 
giving her a significant glance. He did not intend to hand on 
his information to her father, as he very well knew that she was 
in for a bad enough time without that, but he would have like 
to have shaken her. “Well, we must shorten the road,” he pulled 
on his gloves. “I have tickets for a matinee at the theatre on 
Saturday; will you come, Georgie?” 

But she did not run after her father and kiss him, as was 
her wont. She only stood at the table and looked at the plates 
and the crumbs through her tears, for Milson’s shot had told, 
and she was feeling it hideously. 

All the dull, cold day she kept indoors. If she went out and 
met people they would certainly speak of Clint and remark upon 
the fact that he was gone, watching to see how she was taking 
it. She felt, too, that they were all glad to think that they had 
been true prophets, but her most real concern was with Clint 
himself. She knew that he was, as she had said, no saint, but 
the idea of his having been openly dishonourable, if it were 
really the case, hurt her desperately. There was a strong streak 
of the Puritan in Georgie’s nature which arose now and then 
and asserted itself. If Clint had really once acted dishonour- 
ably, she felt that she had lessened and lowered herself in some 
vague way by her own capitulation to him. 

And so the weary day dragged through, and Georgie sat deso- 
lately by the dining-room fire. There was no need to waste 
coal by lighting one in the drawing-room, and also she realised 
that she must make a fight against her tremendous memories. 
She was cold, lonely and beaten, and though she kissed the little 
pearl pendant, it did not make anything better. Dada would 
be back for tea, having settled matters with the cook who cried 
too much. Georgie wondered how he would settle it. Miss 
White invariably consulted Mr. Desmond upon every event of 
her life, and seemed to regard him as an oracle. 

At a little after five, when the outside world was sinking into 
twilight, Georgie heard the front door open, but she did not 
stir. Tea had been laid on the end of the dining-room table, 
and was ready, and presently Kate would bring the lamp, and 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


72 

the interminable evening begin; so she sat listlessly where she 
was. 

A sound from the hall made her start and flush. Dada was 
talking to some one, talking quite loudly and cordially, and the 
voice which replied to his was that of Clint. 

She thought for a moment that she must be mad and the 
trouble of the morning had gone to her head, as she pressed her 
hands over her heart. 

“She is not in here,” Mr. Desmond said, having opened the 
drawing-room door. “No doubt she has gone out. Never mind, 
Captain Clint, we shall find her, we shall find her.” 

Was she dreaming? She stood, holding on to the mantel- 
piece, her whole body trembling like an aspen in a storm, and 
then the dining-room door was opened, and Dada came in. Such 
a changed Dada, with a smile on his face, and the air of a suc- 
cessful pioneer. 

“Georgie, my dear, Captain Clint has returned,” he said. He 
wishes to speak to you.” And with that Mr. Desmond retreated 
and closed the door behind him. 

What happened then Georgie hardly knew. She felt as though 
she had been whirled into a wonderful dreamland as Clint 
caught her up, lifting her from her feet. 

“Georgie, I tried to go away. I got as far as Mallow, and 
when I saw the mail train coming in, I told the porter to cart 
my luggage across again, and I just took a ticket back to Ard- 
clare.” He kissed her and put her on her feet again, holding 
her shoulders with tense hands. “I met your father outside the 
gate and told him then and there that I had come back to ask 
you if you’d marry me.” 

“That was why Dada was so pleased,” she said. 

“And aren’t you pleased? You want me, Georgie?” 

She melted into his arms again, and all the old joy came 
racing back wildly to her heart. 

“I love you,” she said. “You know that, Eustace.” 

Yet somehow Georgie was not as happy as she should have 
been. She had actually gained her heart’s desire, and Dada was 
entirely satisfied. She had scored more than she knew herself 
off the gossips of Ardclare, and life was opening its gates for her 
at last, so that she might pass through into the world’s fair and 
enjoy herself. She was to have a good social position and plenty 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


73 

of money, for Clint proposed to be generous indeed in the matter 
of settlements, and the outlook was as happy as it well could 
be, so that Miss White cheered up and looked into Georgie’s 
mouth for traces of the golden spoon. 

Eustace was ardent, and his haste to get the wedding over 
was, Mrs. Sharkey felt, hardly decent. He hustled Mr. Des- 
mond and hurried things on at top speed, and even the most 
critical could not accuse him of lack of fervour. 

“Tell me,” Georgie said after an exhausting day in Cork, 
which she had spent in ordering more clothes than she had 
heretofore owned during the whole of her life, “did you ever do 
anything reely wicked, Eustace?” 

They were having tea at the County Club, and he sat admir- 
ing her in a new hat, which was very becoming. 

“Heaps of things,” he agreed. “By the way, Georgie, don’t 
worry too much about clothes. You can get a whole new rig-out 
in Paris, when we go there.” 

She was really going to “Pars,” incredible as it seemed, and 
yet she was not smiling, because it had suddenly come over 
her that she must know the truth of Milson’s story. “I’m in 
dead earnest,” she said, leaning forward anxiously. “Were you 
ever in a divorce case?” 

Clint flushed and sat stiffly in his chair. “Who’s been telling 
you about that ?” he asked. 

“I heard it. It’s not true?” 

“It is all stale now, anyhow,” he said, frowning. “I got let 
in.” 

Georgie became silent for a time and then spoke. “Oughtn’t 
you have married her?” she asked. 

“Oh, no. Not that sort of woman.” 

She flushed and still did not look up. “But if it was you as 
did the wrong, I don’t' see how ” 

“Don’t be a little idiot,” he said shortly. “You don’t under- 
stand these things. Anyhow,” he rallied her, “if I had, I 
shouldn’t be where I am now.” 

“Is she — did she marry since?” 

“I’ve not heard,” he said carelessly. “Did I tell you I’d 
got a letter from my sister to-day ? You and she will like each 
other.” 

“Show,” Georgie said, looking up and holding out her hand, 
but Eustace shook his head. 


74 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


“She writes an infernal fist/’ Jie replied evasively. “It takes 
a lifetime to read her scrawls, and we have a train to catch.” 

Georgie did not speak again of the question she had put to 
him, and the uneasiness in her heart was by no means set at 
rest. 


CHAPTER VIII 


Presents flowed in from all sides upon Georgie, who had always 
loved gifts, and her joy in receiving made^the givers feel blessed, 
and the countenances of the people of Ardclare grew benevolent, 
now that she might so soon look down upon them all. 

She received a short and extremely formal note from Clint’s 
mother, and a letter from his sister which she was unable to 
read, but it looked as though it was kindly expressed, and 
Georgie thought she would like her when they met. 

Clint had rushed over to England to make some arrangements, 
and was to return on the eve of the wedding with his best man, 
Lord Comerforth, a prospect the grandeur of which caused 
nearly a panic in the heart of Georgie and rendered Mrs. 
Sharkey speechless with rage. So for the last few days Georgie 
was given a little time to think over things, though not much, 
for there were still appointments with dressmakers, and while 
people trooped in to see her and sat for hours talking, there 
were all the arrangements for the wedding to be attended to in 
detail. 

In these days Georgie clung to the fast-receding life with 
a kind of fury. She was happy. Over and over again she 
told herself so, and it was such a relief to see Dada with a 
smile on his face and to think that he felt he had done his 
very best for her, and that it had culminated in such a wonder- 
ful marriage for his beloved daughter. He took an interest in 
the wedding presents, and was pleased with Lady Duncarrig’s 
icily-expressed congratulations which accompanied a silver 
flower-pot. 

Milson Rogers took the blow well. He came to Georgie 
directly he heard of her engagement, and apologised for repeat- 
ing idle gossip, wrung her hand violently so that her fingers 
ached, and said that he wished her joy. 

“I always said you were a jewel. And the fellow that’s 
got you is a lucky man. Wish you well, Georgie.” 

Miss White cried over her, and swore solemnly to take care of 
her “fawther,” though she could not imagine Ardclare without 

75 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


76 

Georgie Desmond. Mrs. Francis Dykes was expansively gush- 
ing, and the people in the shops were interested and triumphant. 
They were all sorry that Clint was not a lord, but even so they 
considered him a very handsome man indeed, and had watched 
the affair from the start with keen attention. Georgie was the 
heroine of the piece, the princess of the fairy tale, and she was 
going to “Pars” for her honeymoon. 

Kate Love lessened her hostility to the outside world, and was 
less abusive to messengers than of old, and the local tailor was 
busy making Mr. Desmond a new suit, the first he had been 
known to have for years. Georgie’s position as organist had 
been passed on to Mrs. Dykes, who spent a few hours every day 
practising the Wedding March, for she and Miss White made 
an armistice on the head of decorations, and were to unite their 
forces to beautify the little church for the occasion. Wedding 
refreshments of a light kind were coming from Cork, and every 
day added speed to the whirl in which they all lived. Even the 
weather was kind, and the closing week of January was as warm 
and balmy as early spring. 

Georgie had got back from Cork by an early train, and as she 
reached the Rectory she met Mr. Finney, whom she had not seen 
for some time, turning away from the house. He looked washed 
out and disconsolate, and Georgie felt a sudden spasm of pity 
towards the young man, so that she pressed him to come back 
with her and have tea. 

“Pm dying of thirst as it is,” she said, smiling at him with 
her bright, alluring eyes. “Don’t you never get married, Mr. 
Finney; it’s an awful show.” 

He followed her humbly into the house. Her engagement 
had come as no surprise to him, and he submitted silently to the 
justice of fate. She was bom to the purple, and far too distant 
from his dreams for him to feel rancour or personal injury. 
Had she told him she was going to marry the Prince of Wales 
he would have considered it only suitable, for Mr. Finney’s love 
was the love of the idealist. 

He watched her as she took off her furs, and envied Clint 
because he could afford to give her such expensive things, and 
when she had poured out tea and they sat together, both of them 
rather quiet, he tried to tell her how truly he wished her to be 
happy. 

“I s’pose you’ll not often be back in Ardclare,” he said. “Mr. 
Desmond will miss you terribly, Miss Desmond.” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 77 

Georgie offered him some bread and butter, which he took, 
and said “Ta,” rather piteously, she felt. 

“Is it back ? Of course I’ll be back, like the bad half-penny. 
You’ll not be rid of me as easy’s all that.” 

, “It must be very fine to be living in England,” Mr. Finney 
said. “I was once in Fleetwood. Crossed over by Belfast.” 

“And I was never further than Dublin,” Georgie said, her 
mouth full. “I hope I won’t be sea-sick. I have an awful dread 
of the sea.” 

“And you’re going to Paris, I’m told ?” he asked. 

“Yes.” Georgie suddenly felt the nearness of all this sweep- 
ing change, and her throat grew dry, so that she gulped rather 
noisily at her tea. “You’ll be good to Dada, won’t you, Mr.. 
Finney, and go see him in th’ evenings? He’ll miss me, I 
know.” 

“Surely he will,” Mr. Finney replied wistfully. 

“And all the fine times we had.” She lingered over them in 
thought. “I go round now, looking my eyes out at everything, 
and trying so’s I’ll remember it all to my last hour. There’s 
something fearfully queer about good-byes, isn’t there?” 

“But they’re soon over,” he said. 

“The day after to-morrow,” she added, and they both fell 
silent again. 

“Well, I suppose I’d better be going.” Mr. Finney got up and 
looked at her, and Georgie awakened from her dreams. “You 
can depend your life on my doing any little act I can for Mr. 
Desmond.” 

Their hands touched and fell apart, and he went to the door. 
The silver photograph frame he had given her caught his eye 
on the table with a quantity of other presents. 

“Would you — ” he stammered, “could I ask that your own 
photo would be in the frame, Miss Desmond ? It’s only a little 
thing, and not worthy in the least, but I’d like that you put 
your own photo in it.” 

“Indeed I will, Mr. Finney, indeed I will,” Georgie said with 
emphasis. “It’s too good of you, reely.” 

She was seeing him off when the Archdeacon arrived with Mr. 
Desmond. He was to officiate with Georgie’s father, and his 
usually brusque and rather contemptuous attitude towards Dada 
had become amazingly polite and condescending. 

“Mrs. Marsh and I wish to present you with a small token,” 
he said, taking Georgie’s hand with fervour. Mrs. jMarsh had 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


78 

formerly all but cut Georgie dead, for she was a strict follower 
of the Duncarrig tradition. “A Prayer Book and Hymnal com- 
bined,” said the Archdeacon with unction. 

“I’m awfully pleased.” Georgie rang for more boiling water. 
“It’s awf’lly good of you and Mrs. Marsh. I’m as keen as — I 
mean, I’ve always been very fond of a nice Prayer-book.” 

“With our united congratulations,” added the Archdeacon. 

She was glad when he left. The atmosphere of marriage in 
the house began to grow oppressively intense. Every one was 
taking it so seriously, and Georgie suddenly discovered that she 
was losing her nerve, and wished to run away and hide. 

“Dada,” she said, when the day was over, and they were alone, 
“I don’t want to be married at all.” 

He had been sitting reading the local paper, and he looked up 
with startled eyes. 

“What’s that?” he asked. 

“I don’t want to go away,” she said, and she began to cry. 

“Nonsense,” Mr. Desmond said sharply. 

“I b’lieve I’d be best oil in the finish if I’d taken Einney and 
gone to live in the cottage at th’ end of the road. I’d not be 
going away, then, and I’d be near you.” 

“Einney? Marry Einney?” Mr. Desmond said in a voice of 
exasperation. “What are you talking of? You are engaged to 
a good, kind man, and at this hour you actually talk of breaking 
it off and marrying a fellow like Finney, who has practically no 
social position and no prospects. Not even a relative who might 
eventually leave him something.” 

Georgie continued to cry, and the sight only added to her 
father’s extreme irritation. “It’s come over me that I don’t 
reely know Eustace,” she said. “When he’s there it’s different, 
Dada darling, but when he isn’t, and I think of his mother and 
his sister, Lady Mayfield, and then this friend of his coming 
to be best man, it frightens the life out of me. Suppose they’re 
all like th’ Duncarrig lot, when I get there. Won’t I have a 
dreadful time of it with them ?” 

“Eustace will be your husband,” Mr. Desmond said severely. 

“You are marrying him, Georgie. His people may be all you 
yourself would wish. Eustace is a good young man ” 

Georgie could never explain what impulse seized her when 
she broke in upon her father and said, “He is not” 

Mr. Desmond looked at the fire and blew his nose. 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


79 

“He isn’t reely good,” Georgie went on defiantly. “He was 
in a divorce case.” 

“I am surprised that you should vilify the man you say you 
love,” he retorted, quite heatedly. 

“It’s true. He said it was.” She dried her tears and lifted 
her chin defiantly. 

“He has repented of his folly long ago,” Mr. Desmond said 
judicially. “Such an occurrence is to be deplored, but at the 
same time you are doing very wrong if you allow yourself to 
judge him. I never expected to hear such things from your 
lips.” He got up and seized the poker and beat upon the logs. 
“There must be no more of it. If you make me feel that Finney 
has come here to-day to try some means to insinuate himself 
into your affections, I shall be forced to refuse him admission 
to the house. It is too bad, quite preposterous. Go to bed at 
once.” 

“You’ve not read prayers yet, Dada,” Georgie reminded him, 
and he sat down again and, snatching up the Archdeacon’s 
gift, began to read in a rapid voice. 

“You aren’t vexed with me, Dada?” Georgie said penitently 
as she kissed his cheek. “Of course I’m happy and glad to be 
marrying Eustace, but there’s times when it all looks so fear- 
fully strange, and I get frightened.” 

Mr. Desmond was in no mood to encourage sentiment, and 
he only patted her hand and said, “There, there, that’s enough,” 
and she went uncomforted to bed. 

For a long time she sat on the side of her bed and thought. 
Marriage was upon her at last. The goal towards which her 
energies had been directed, the open door out of her present life. 
By this means alone she could go into the other world of which 
she knew nothing, and, instead of being glad, she clung desper- 
ately to the familiar and the known; it was rather like facing 
death. 

Georgie was aware most consciously that Eustace was a 
stranger to her, except in some emotional way, when she ac- 
cepted him without question. One could trust to the emotional 
wave to carry one out to sea, but what about the ebb tide ? The 
inevitable reaction which must surely follow? Did a wedding- 
ring really make it feel all right? Was there no danger of 
discovering that you knew that there was something wrong in 
it? 

Georgie stared at the still, pointed flame of the candle, and 


8o 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


wondered. Wasn’t there something that jarred the nerves about 
marriage, with all the publicity it entailed? If one could run 
off and tell nobody, it might be accomplished without the deadly 
realism arising from so many people having to know all about it. 
There were density and disillusion in the atmosphere, and she 
shut her eyes and shivered a little in spite of herself. What 
would be wrong to-day must be right to-morrow, and that was 
the general verdict of the world. She turned her pillow and 
looked fixedly at the opposite wall of her room. 

Marriage opened a door. It lifted a charge off Dada’s 
shoulders, and it was her duty to marry as well as she could. 
If you were not married by the time you were thirty, your 
chances dwindled, and only the good housekeeper, or the plain 
hardworking elder sister to a large family, ever managed to 
pull it off, if they had once reached those ominous years. The 
pretty girl who had flirted wildly was hopelessly done if she 
let the spring-fime pass. The more she had flirted, the less 
chance for her, and Georgie realised her own danger. 

But, after marriage? What next? She tried to think of 
anyone she knew who had made a signal success of the experi- 
ment. Dotted about in houses through the county, there were 
young couples she had known, and the thought of them did not 
encourage her at all. Clint as a bachelor was nearly perfect in 
her eyes, but to think of him as married, even though he was 
married to herself, dimmed his brilliance already. Fred Nor- 
cott had married Queenie French, and Fred had grown dull 
and didn’t look the same, while Queenie drifted into a colourless 
wifehood which was totally unpleasing and not even interesting ; 
and there were dozens of others, all much the same. Harold 
Jameson had been run after by most of the girls round Ard- 
clare, but when he eventually married a girl he had met in 
London, and settled down and became the father of a family, 
Georgie marvelled that she had ever looked forward to his 
dances on her programme. Nor were they really happy to- 
gether, for now the county talked of their mutual squabbles, and 
of Mrs. Harold’s bad temper and lack of looks. Now her own 
feet were on the same path and in a little time she would be 
Georgie Clint, with an uncomfortable conviction that she still 
was really Georgie Desmond. She sighed deeply and ex- 
tinguished her candle. One must accept it, and trust in the 
emotional wave to help one through with the beginnings of it 
all. When you grew quite old it mattered less. Old married 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


81 

people usually appeared quite content and depended rather 
pathetically on each other. They had outworn their quarrels, and 
time smoothed out the wrinkles in that terrible bed of roses. 

Then quite suddenly she fell in love with Eustace all over 
again, and decided that nothing could be more perfect than 
life spent in his society. She was the luckiest girl in Ireland, 
and as she hadn’t a penny to her name the entire disinterested- 
ness of his love was sure; for she did not know that Clint was 
always prepared to buy anything he wanted very much, and that 
though Georgie represented a piece of reckless extravagance, he 
felt he must have her. Nor did she understand that she herself 
had set the price at marriage. 

The next day went through like a series of broken dreams, 
and brought Clint and Lord Comerforth to the hotel. Lord 
Comerforth seemed to feel that he was taking part in a huge 
joke and insisted upon talking with an assumed brogue. He 
addressed Georgie as a “colleen,” and said “begorra” several 
times, and succeeded in making her thoroughly self-conscious 
and awkward. She thought that Eustace was not pleased with 
her, so that she became mo.re and more pert and personal in her 
repartee, and Mr. Desmond was even affected by the advent of 
the new-comer, and lost some of his dim dignity of manner. 

“There’s the presents,” Georgie said, conducting Lord Comer- 
forth into the drawing-room, and indicating the table with a 
sweep of her hand. “You’d think they was all glad to be shut 
of me, wouldn’t you now ?” 

“Objection, objection,” Lord Comerforth said, rocking a little 
on his long legs. “I feel sure that these are the symbols of a 
holocaust of broken hearts.” 

“Broken hearts, indeed,” Georgie retorted, as she picked up 
the little gifts carelessly and replaced them anyhow. 

“Eustace told me that you were the Queen of Oireland,” he 
said, looking at her quizzically. 

“Then he told you a lie.” 

“Tut, tut! Come now! It is a self-evident fact, mademoi- 
selle.” 

“I’m no more Queen of Ireland than you are a King of 
England,” she said, touching her treasures fondly. “And you 
couldn’t be that, because you have no beard.” 

He walked to the mantelpiece and leaned against it. Inwardly 
he was thinking that Eustace must be mad. The girl was pretty 


82 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


enough, of course, and had her unsophisticated charm. A fiasco, 
indeed, and he saw a swift end to the roses and raptures of a 
brief honeymoon. 

“Even if I had a beard .‘ . .” he said. “But, then, with your 
sex, Miss Desmond, it is beauty which decides these things.” 

“And you’re making it out that I’m a beauty!” she laughed. 
“That’s a good one.” 

He watched her critically and decided that she was good- 
tempered. She would need to be, if he knew anything of Eus- 
tace; and from being sorry for his friend, he now grew sorry for 
her. 

“Marriage is a bit of a plunge. What?” he asked. 

“Are you married?” she replied. 

“Not yet, only engaged.” 

She looked at him and reflected that it had made very little 
difference to him; he seemed detached, and she could not 
imagine what kind of woman he would love. 

“Are y’ in love?” she said, her eyes anxious. 

“Why, I suppose so. We take these events rather calmly in 
my family. I’ve no Celtic fire, you see; I’m just a dull English- 
man.” 

Georgie felt the remark to be so true that she must, out of 
politeness, contradict it at once. 

“I expect you’re fearfully deep” she said, and she looked at 
him flirtatiously. 

Comerforth laughed. He was tremendously amused by the 
village flirt, and he began to like her better than before. 

“You’ve got awfully pretty eyes,” he said. “I wonder very 
much how you’ll like us all, when you come to England.” 

“I’m in dread of my life of Eustace’s mother,” she replied 
confidentially. “Tell me, Lord Comerforth, is she nice?” 

Comerforth screwed up his eyes and smiled. “She’s rather 
antique,” he said. “Dense, you know, and formal. But I expect 
her bark is worse than her bite, though she does bow-wow a 
lot. Don’t knuckle under to her, show fight at once if she tries 
to squash you.” 

Georgie looked at him miserably. “Oh, .my,” she said. “It 
sounds something desperate.” 

“You won’t care,” he laughed. “Besides, Eustace can tame 
her.” 

“And what sort is Lady Mayfield? I ought to call her 
Eleanor, but it’s frightfully difficult.” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 83 

“Nell ? She’s all right,” he nodded, encouragingly. “She 
isn’t at all a bad sort. You’ll get on with her, I expect.” 

Again Georgie sighed. “It’s often I’ve wished Eustace was 
an orphan,” she said disconsolately, and she looked so helpless 
that Comerforth was again moved to sympathy. 

“They all live at a civil distance,” he said. “The Gleanings 
isn’t a house in a row.” 

“I wish it were,” Georgie replied with unexpected vehemence, 
“I do wish it were. It’s enough to frighten a person to have 
to be grand all of a sudden. Dada ’n I aren’t a bit grand, and 
I don’t know how I shall get along with it.” 

She was standing close to him, and unconsciously she touched 
his sleeve, her eyes still lifted, and, without stopping to con- 
sider that this act was a wholly reprehensible one, Lord Comer- 
forth bent his head and kissed her. He had hardly done so, 
or recovered from his own surprise at himself, when Clint came 
in and looked at them both suspiciously. His face darkened 
at once, and he took Georgie by the arm. 

“Why are you and Comerforth hiding away in here?” he 
asked. 

“My dear chap, hiding isn’t the word. We were looking at 
Miss Desmond’s presents,” Lord Comerforth said equably. “I 
was choosing which of them she is to hand on to me, when my 
turn comes.” 

“Oh, were you,” Clint said less aggressively, but still dis- 
satisfied. “Look here, Georgie, will you tell me . . .” and he 
talked on of the arrangements for the departure the following 
day. 

But Georgie was in a bad mood. She would not let herself be 
led away to Dada’s study to be kissed and scolded by Clint, but 
clung to the protective presence of the best man. She did 
not think again of his having kissed her so unexpectedly ; it just 
didn’t matter. But if Clint knew, there would be murder; and 
the amazing part of it was that Eustace had now a right to 
know, and, further, a right to object. 

“What does Comerforth talk to you about?” he asked, when 
his friend took his departure. 

“He told me that your mamma was rather a caution,” she 
said, disentangling herself from his arms. 

“And what about his own mother?” Clint said hotly. “She 
is a dreadful old woman, and he is afraid of her.” 


84 A RECKLESS PURITAN 

“Do Englishmen always have awful mothers?” she asked 
innocently. 

“I call it confounded insolence for Comerforth to discuss my 
people. You should not have let him,” he said impatiently. 

“He said that Eleanor was all right.” 

“Very kind of him.” 

“He said I’d like her.” 

“What else did he say?” He eyed her with a return of sus- 
picion. 

“He told me about his engagement,” she said quickly. “One 
of the first things he said.” 

Clint grew mollified and caught her in his arms again. “I’m 
so infernally jealous,” he said. “Georgie, you don’t know how 
I hate it, when I think you have made yourself cheap in any 
way. You are mine, mine, and belong only to me.” 

She relented and drifted to his clasp. This was the Eustace 
whom she knew and understood. 

They were married by the Archdeacon, assisted by Dada, and 
the church was decorated as well as it could be at a time of year 
when flowers are scarce. Mrs. Dykes played the Wedding 
March, and Miss White stood beside Georgie, even though there 
were four bridesmaids, and seemed to hold an official capacity 
of some sort. Every one came to the wedding, and all were im- 
pressed by the bridegroom and the best man. It was like a 
repetition of King Cophetua’s surprising conduct towards the 
beggar maid. It was romance made manifest. There were those 
who murmured, and wondered why none of Clint’s people had 
come, but their voices were drowned by “O, perfect Love,” 
played by Mrs. Dykes and sung by the choir; Mr. Finney’s 
tenor more throaty and tremulous than usual. And then they 
collected in the vestry and signed the register, but Lord Comer- 
forth did not kiss the bride, as some one suggested that he 
should. 

Georgie looked back as she left the church, and the waves of 
harsh sound followed her into the gay world outside, and what 
she thought of in that moment, she herself could not have said. 

The cutting of the wedding cake followed, and the tumult of 
noise and laughter filled the house. Was every one .really as 
happy as all that ? And then Georgie went up to her room with 
Miss White and took off her veil and wreath and the satin dress, 
made by Madame Murphy, and put on her travelling dress and 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 85 

fur coat, and stood for a moment staring at her own face in the 
glass. 

Miss White was crying quietly. Weddings always affected 
her, because she had never married anyone, and they called up 
ghosts of old dreams. “You are a lucky girl, Georgie,” she said 
tenderly. “I am so glad you have made such a good match, after 
all.” 

Georgie turned and put her arms round her good friend. 
“Be good to Dada,” she said in a whisper. “It’s leaving him 
that is the hardest part.” 

“But you are going out into life,” said Miss White, “and 
there is everything good in store for you.” 

“I know that.” Georgie gave a wild glance round her. “But 
Pd best be quick over it.” 

They were to go by car to Mallow Junction, the place from 
where Clint had once turned back, and they departed amid 
cheers and confetti. Georgie was launched, and as Miss White 
had said, going out into life. 

Lord Comerforth left by an afternoon train, and the day 
suddenly grew dull and uncomfortable, like some half-hearted 
Christmas Day which began too early and ended too late, and 
there were litter and confusion everywhere, because we can none 
of us either get married or die without leaving a debris behind 
us, which those who rejoice or those who mourn are obliged 
to clear up. So the sexton thought, as he took down the decora- 
tions and threw them into his dustbin, and Kate Love, with her 
broom, fighting the remains of the confetti out of the faded 
carpets, thought the same. 

Georgie was gone. She had got married at last. 











t 


PART TWO 


v 


• * 




PART TWO 


CHAPTER IX 

Autumn returned to a still, blue world of wonderful days, and 
old memories began to awaken, as they do when the weeds are 
burning and the dahlias are dead. Qnce a fox hunter, always 
a fox hunter. 

Georgie had come through the spring and the summer like a 
child who is alternately delighted and bewildered by a whole 
crowd of new surroundings and experiences. She was happy 
enough because Clint still looked exactly the same, and if he 
occasionally behaved rather differently, she took any alterations 
of manner much as one submits to a few bad days in a fine 
season. 

The Gleanings was a huge place in her eyes, and Georgie 
was oppressed by the rigour of the staff of servants, whom she 
was nominally supposed to direct. They weren’t a bit like 
Kate Love or Patsy, the man of all work, and she missed the 
intensely personal note to which she had been accustomed; she 
even missed the scoldings to which Kate had subjected her, and 
she knew that these indifferent people by whom she was now 
surrounded must inwardly .regard her as a very contemptible 
mistress. 

“Why do you always apologise when you give an order?” 
Eustace said over and over again. “Can’t you understand they 
are paid to do their job.” 

“They’re so fearfully grand,” Georgie said dubiously, “and 
they never say if they are pleased. Perhaps it is the way that 
they aren’t never pleased at all.” 

The house stood on Bracken Hill, some way out of Oxford, 
and from the terrace in front, you could look over a wide, sweep- 
ing view to where, down in the valley, the outline of towers and 
spires was clearly visible. This was Oxford, known to Georgie 
by repute as an expensive place where young men went to take 

89 


go 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


their degrees. It interested her, because it was full of young 
men, and had a dashing reputation of a vague kind. Clint was 
the only Oxford man she had ever known. 

All around her there were comfort and solidity. No one ate 
up scraps in The Gleanings, and the cost of upkeep alone was 
startlingly excessive in her eyes. The gardens were well kept, 
and the drive immaculate; the stables, though small, were the 
picture of what stables ought to be, and inside, the house was 
thoroughly well lighted, heated and furnished. Georgie’s own 
room was a revelation to her. She had mirrors that reflected 
her at every angle, and one, in a wide Florentine frame, which 
was in itself a really beautiful decoration. The carpet was soft 
and the curtains would have made half a dozen brocade dresses 
for her, and on the dressing table there was an array of boxes 
with gilt tops to hold her trinkets and hairpins. Her first im- 
pression of The Gleanings was ecstatic, tempered a little by the 
feeling that it was all too heavy in its completeness. 

She had accepted without comment the gorgeous effect of the 
expensive hotels where she and Clint had spent their honey- 
moon. They were her idea of hotels, and like those she had read 
of in books; but to come to a house which was nominally her 
home, and find that it lacked nothing, made her conscious of de- 
tachment. She could not curl up comfortably in this new house, 
and had a habit of peering along the passages to see that they 
were clear of her terrifying staff of servants, before she went 
from one room to another. There was not a single shabby cor- 
ner in which she could feel entirely at home, and she asserted 
herself for the first time over the question of lady’s maid. 

“I’ll not have a lady’s maid,” she said, as she sat in the smok- 
ing-room with Clint. “It’s bad enough to have the under-house- 
maid watching me dress. Th’ English are awfully stiff, Eustace, 
and when I tried to have a bit of fun with her, she looked 
as if she’d seen Peter Laffan’s ghost.” 

“A bit of fun ?” he said, looking up from his writing table. 

“I didn’t say much,” Georgie replied. “I only asked her 
was it her the gardener was after?” 

Clint threw down his pen. He was writing to his mother to 
tell her that he and Georgie would run up to London and stay 
with her for a week-end, as soon as she decided to name a date. 
He was going to speak hastily, but when he looked at Georgie 
he changed his mind and laughed. 

“You ought to have a maid, I suppose,” he said. 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


9i 

“Where’s the ought? It’s waste; and, besides, I don’t know 
what to tell her do. Is it brush my hair? Can’t I do that 
much myself, Eustace? And then her in and out of the room 
is so queer,” she looked down and fiddled with a long amber 
chain she wore. 

“Whatever you like,” he agreed. “But you must begin to run 
the house on your own.” 

After a time she grew used to the servants, and gave her 
orders with more assurance, but she was entirely unmethodical, 
and her ways caused much comment in the servants’ hall. They 
felt that she must have come out of some very queer place, and 
she did not impress them favourably. But she was happy, and 
Eustace encouraged her by his approval. 

. The visit to his mother’s house in Cadogan Place was painful. 
Mrs. Clint was a large woman with a face the colour of parch- 
ment, and cold eyes with red veins in them. She disapproved 
totally of the wretched marriage her son had made, and only 
submitted because it was inevitable. There was nothing either 
fresh or original about her, and she belonged to a type too com- 
monplace to be the least interesting. 

She had already interviewed Lady Duncarrig on the subject 
of Georgie, and had been confirmed in her worst fears. Georgie, 
now so unfortunately her daughter-in-law, was a girl who had 
“got herself talked about,” and for this there was no forgiveness, 
unless you had money or “position,” when it might be over- 
looked. Georgie had no money, and Mrs. Clint considered that 
no girl with less than, at the very least, four or five hundred a 
year of her own, had the smallest right to expect a wealthy 
husband. Penniless, dowerless girls should marry bank clerks 
or curates, and when they forced themselves, unwanted, on 
families who might have looked far higher, they must not ex- 
pect to be received with acclamations of joy. Furthermore, she 
had a strong feeling that the Irish were dirty ; that they were 
liars and vagabonds, and that it was distressingly undignified 
to come from such a country. She regarded Georgie as though 
she were a spirited young Bolshevist* with a reputation for 
slaughter. 

Georgie, on her part, was full of misgivings before she crossed 
the threshold of Mrs. Clint’s house, and it in no way improved 
the circumstances when she found Veronica Stuart sitting in 
the drawing-room. She knew that Veronica ridiculed her piti- 
lessly, and when she watched the greeting between her husband 


92 A RECKLESS PURITAN 

and his mother, and the extreme cordiality with which Miss 
Stuart welcomed Eustace, she realised how completely out of it 
they intended her to feel. 

Mrs. Clint accepted her passively, offered a large space of 
flabby cheek for her to kiss, and then ignored her altogether, 
while Veronica held out a hand and looked at her with un- 
veiled hostility. 

“Mother is always rather difficult,” Clint explained when he 
and Georgie stood in the gloomy bedroom together. “She is a 
very clever woman.” 

“Is she?” Georgie replied, throwing her hat on to the bed. 
“I b’lieve she hates the sight of me. I wish we could go home.” 

“You’ll have to get accustomed to us,” he said, showing 
temper, “even if our standard of brains and manners is so much 
below that of Ardclare.” 

“And now you’re mad,” she retorted. “And you have the 
very eyes of your mother when you get cross.” 

“Do try and get on with her,” Clint said, kissing his wife. 
“It’s not for long, and for my sake you might try. I always 
did my best with your father.” 

“Dada? Dada’s a lamb. No one could help loving him. Is 
it fair to compare him to your mother, Eustace? And he 
always so kind to you.” 

“Have it your own way,” he said wearily. “I suppose women 
always fight.” 

The week-end was not a success, and it culminated in a fierce 
outburst during dinner on the last evening, for Georgie’s pent- 
up feelings had got beyond control. 

Mrs. Clint made a heavy political attack upon Ireland, with 
a view to making her feelings clear, and Georgie became sud- 
denly aware that her country was wonderfully dear to her. At 
home she had been the mildest of politicians, and had re- 
garded the English connection as a good thing, because she 
understood that if Ireland became a free and independent 
nation, the troops would be withdrawn. This was, in her eyes, 
a reason for upholding the Union; but under the lash of Mrs. 
Clint’s tongue, Georgie became a Republican, and, what was 
far worse, could not be restrained from saying so. 

“You should remember that the Irish are beggars,” Mrs. 
Clint said with solemn rancour, “and that beggars cannot be 
choosers.” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


93 

“Why not? That’s the first I ever heard of it,” Georgie 
retorted hotly. 

Her former respect for England dwindled as she regarded 
Mrs. Clint. She wondered why she had been imposed upon in 
the past. Clint frowned at her, and sided with his mother. 
He told her that she was a silly little fool, and that she was 
ignorant of facts. 

“Evidently Georgie sympathises with murderers,” Mrs. Clint 
said in an awful voice as she rose from the table; and they 
retired to the drawing-room, where the remainder of the eve- 
ning dragged through interminably. 

“Why did you talk like that?” Clint asked when they were 
alone. “You were frightfully rude, Georgie.” 

“And what about her? Wasn’t she rude to me?” 

“She has very decided political opinions,” he said. 

“And may abuse the whole of us as much as she likes, and 
me sit there and say nothing at all? If you think I’m that 
kind, Eustace, you’re wrong, because I’m not.” 

“But you never used to be a Republican,” he argued. “Your 
father isn’t one.” 

“Anyone would be, over here,” she said. “You’re enough to 
madden a saint with your superiority.” 

Eustace yawned. “Come to bed,” he said. “You know what 
I think.” 

Not the most optimistic could have said the visit was a 
success, and Georgie left after a dreadful luncheon party at 
which Lady Duncarrig was present; she had been informed by 
Mrs. Clint that Georgie was a Republican, and once again 
Georgie became the target for barbed arrows. Lady Duncarrig 
said she was not surprised to hear it, and told dreadful tales 
of the conduct of Georgie’s allies, addressing herself to Mrs. 
Clint, who seemed to swell even larger with satisfaction. 
Georgie was still too much afraid of Lady Duncarrig to retort, 
and felt that she had been beaten out of the field. 

“I wonder you ever stay at Ardclare if that’s the way you 
feel,” she said, and Lady Duncarrig looked a little over her 
head and made no reply. 

She left the house with a sense of misery, Eustace adding to 
it by his obvious disapproval. Georgie had looked small during 
lunch, and it affected his impression of her. She had come out 
of it badly, with no support, and he knew that both his mother 
and Lady Duncarrig felt that he had been let in and “caught.” 


94 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


They were friendly to him, and nothing which his wife had 
chosen to say or do altered their steadfastness; and when 
Georgie sat in the taxi beside him, with flushed cheeks and hard 
eyes, he wondered whether he had not been too precipitate and 
too hopelessly generous in his love for her. 

It was forgotten after a week, and they grew happy again. 
Georgie was interested in the stables, and though she .refused 
to learn to ride astride, she looked so well in her smart habit 
that he admired her once more. 

Comerforth’s sister had called, and a whole tribe of the 
people of the neighbourhood, and Geo.rgie had been a success 
with them. They were obviously delighted with her accent, 
and thought her charming, and, in return, she responded and 
felt less like making war upon them all. Once again she had 
begun to conquer, and this kind of conquest was wonderfully 
easy. At Ardclare she had always been at a disadvantage. 
People snubbed her, and those of her own world did their best 
to reduce her in the public eye, so that it was a battle to keep 
her place; but the callers from the houses, big and little, along 
Bracken Hill acclaimed her at once, and so reinstated her with 
Eustace. The people who came from Oxford seemed to find her 
interesting, and when this was the case Geo.rgie was always 
uncritical. By the time Comerforth brought his wife to 
Stanhope Hall, Georgie was firmly established, and could have 
faced Lady Duncarrig herself without fear. 

It was some months before Clint’s sister came to The Glean- 
ings. She had been abroad with her cranky old husband, and 
left him in a nursing home in London to pay a visit to her 
sister-in-law. 

“Whatever in the world is she like?” Georgie asked Eustace 
a dozen times a day as the date of her arrival drew near. 

Clint did not invite Georgie to accompany him to the train 
to meet Lady Mayfield, and the brother and sister drove back 
together and exchanged confidences. 

Eleanor Mayfield was an extremely pretty woman of thirty- 
six, and looked a good five years younger. She had never taken 
anything seriously in her life, and had a frankness of expression 
which was rather startling to those who were not accustomed 
to her. Her fair hair and brown eyes gave her an ethereal 
effect, though she was a complete materialist, and her mental 
range was that of a rather naughty child. There had not been 
the smallest hint of romance in her marriage with Sir Wilfred 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


95 


Mayfield, who was old enough to be her father, and yet she was 
happy, because she had the slyness of a cat combined with the 
hearty approach of a puppy. She adored Eustace, and con- 
sidered his marriage a huge joke, chiefly because it had irritated 
Mrs. Clint, whom she hated. Eleanor kept on friendly terms 
with the conventions through a steady process of good, hard 
lying, and she had never really loved any man, though she had 
gone through emotional storms with many. 

She met Eustace with a lifted face and a very much lifted 
voice that rang through the station, and he took her by the arm 
as she chattered herself into the car. 

“You didn’t bring Georgie Porgie with you?” she said, mak- 
ing Lord Duncarrig’s joke with great pleasure to herself. 

Eustace said he had not, and wrapped the rug round their 
knees. “How’s Wilfred?” he asked. 

“Living on.” She made a face at him. “He has a perfect 
passion for life. Does it on milk puddings now.” 

“Poor old girl,” he said sympathetically, though Nell had 
married Wilfred with her brown eyes well open, even if she had 
not realised then how very long he was going to live. 

“I don’t mind,” she replied generously, “if he likes it. I got 
him a perfect peach of a nurse.” 

Eustace laughed. “A bit late for that sort of consolation,” he 
remarked, and Eleanor returned to the subject of Georgie. 

“Mother loathes her,” she said, with a gay little laugh. “She 
says that she looks like a servant.” 

“That’s a damned lie,” he replied. “She’s awfully pretty.” 

“Pm sure she is.” Nell gave him a sideways glance. “Which 
accounts for the milk in the coconut, old thing. You wouldn’t 
have married a little nobody without a penny, if she hadn’t been 
something of a looker.” 

“They didn’t hit it off,” he said gloomily. 

“So I hear. I had a perfectly gorgeous time over it all. 
Mother was like a hearse, and more detestable than usual. She 
said that she could hardly understand what Georgie says. She 
speaks, I understand, with the vox populi” 

Clint said nothing. 

“Do you think she’ll die soon?” 

“Georgie ?” He stared at her. “My God, no !” 

“No, not Georgie, you silly idiot; I mean Mother. She is un- 
healthily fat, and her face is growing green.” 

“Mother? Oh, I don’t know.” And neither did Clint care. 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


96 

“Tell me more about Georgie,” Nell continued cheerfully. 
“Lady Duncarrig left her as much of a reputation as you could 
carry away on a threepenny bit. She has been extensively 
kissed. Some one saw a man to whom she had only just been 
introduced kissing her five minutes later. Do you allow her to 
be so friendly now?” 

“All these stories are lies,” he said emphatically. “She gets 
on very well here. Every one likes her. The Harpendens par- 
ticularly, and they are old and stiff; if they like Georgie and 
have her to stay, I can’t see why Mother should sit up and talk 
scandal.” 

“Then you don’t know Mother, or appreciate the lights and 
shades of her psychology.” Lady Mayfield leaned back and 
looked at the amber and blue world around her, as the car 
climbed the long, steep hill. “Are you still in love?” 

“Yes. Why?” 

“Oh, only so as I should know. Georgie hasn’t a hanger- 
on, has she?” 

Clint frowned and looked at his sister. There was something 
which he wanted to say. “Look here, Nell,” he began, “it is 
quite true that Georgie was a bit of a flirt, but I want you to 
remember, in her case, that it was all very harmless, and that 
she has ideas about marriage and all that kind of thing that 
are rather strict. In fact,” he laughed, “she is shockable. She 
got her back up over some quite trifling thing Comerforth said, 
and I was fool enough to let out to her that, though he is 
married, he hasn’t said an eternal farewell to Dolly Ace. I 
hadn’t any idea of the fuss it would occasion.” He struck a 
match and lighted his sister’s cigarette. “When they come to 
The Gleanings, Georgie won’t look at the same side of the room 
as Comerforth, and thinks he is a blackguard. . . . I’m only 
warning you. Do, for God’s sake, be careful not to give any- 
thing away connected with me.” 

“Then she’s a Puritan?” 

“Not exactly. But she’s out of a rectory, and she’s Irish. It 
seems to make people narrow on these subjects.” 

Mon Dieu et Mon Roi!” Lady Mayfield remarked. “And 
Mother practically accused the girl of being all but one of ces 
dames. I do hope she isn’t a wet blanket.” 

“You’ll see her directly,” he said as they drew up at the 
door, and Georgie herself appeared on the steps. 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 97 

Clint watched his sister’s face, and knew at once that she 
was disappointed. Georgie was not sufficiently beautiful. 

“Hallo!” Eleanor said, getting out of the car. “So this is 
you, is it. Female?” and she put her hands on Geo.rgie’s 
shoulders and kissed her ; their eyes studied each other intently. 

“I’m fearfully glad to see you,” Georgie said enthusiastically. 
“I was afraid you’d be like Mrs. Clint.” 

“Heaven forbid !” Eleanor took her arm and climbed the 
steps. “She’s a hateful woman, Female, and has hairs on her 
chin.” 

Geo.rgie’s eyes grew round, and she led the way into the 
smoking-room. 

“I was sorry to hear that Sir Wilfurd was ill,” Georgie said 
from behind the tea-table, handing Nell a cup of tea. 

“His name is Wil-fred, though I think I like ‘Wilfurd’ bet- 
ter ; and he’s in a nursing home,” Lady Mayfield remarked care- 
lessly. 

“My God!” Georgie said emotionally. “How shocking. I’m 
awfully sorry to think of it.” 

“Well, I’m not,” Lady Mayfield remarked, “so don’t worry.” 

Georgie was spellbound by her new relation. She had never 
before met any one who seemed to put into words every thought 
she had. There was nothing, either human o,r divine, that 
baffled Eleanor, or withheld her from her outspoken habit. Not 
one shadowy corner was kept for anything sacred, and she knew 
no reserve; at least, that was the first impression. Geo.rgie felt 
abashed before it all. 

“Isn’t Nell a caution?” she said to Clint when Lady Mayfield 
at last departed to change her dress. 

“Well, you can’t complain of her being dull , anyhow,” he said 
with a touch of temper. 

“I wasn’t faulting her. I only said she was a caution.” 

“Sometimes,” he said slowly, “I wish you would speak Eng- 
lish,” and he walked out of the room. 

Georgie sat down and began to think. She liked Nell. That 
much she could honestly say; but her experience of other 
women was limited, and this tremendous freedom of speech was 
so new in her ears. What would Dada think of her? How 
honest Nell had been about Mrs. Clint. Nothing, Georgie her- 
self felt, could approach the critical attitude of Mrs. Clint’s 
own daughter, for Georgie leavened her dislike with the respect 
due to white hairs. Still, it seemed cruel. 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


98 

Then she remembered that Eustace had been cross. He was 
often cross now, so that she did not notice it particularly, and 
she lay back in her chair and watched the fire. 

Suddenly she began to think of the drawing-room in the 
Rectory with a passionate longing. What fun it would be to go 
back there again, and to sit and talk to Finney and Milson 
Rogers. You could have a bit of fun over there, without any 
real unkindness, and she wondered whefher she had not lost 
more than she would ever gain by the exchange. In her way, 
Georgie was a humble but indefatigable seeker after truth, and 
she began to review her feelings carefully, for illusion was 
evaporating steadily with the months. She had, in fact, ceased 
to swing her censer before the altar, and was looking her god in 
the face rather blankly. 

Was not Nell, for all her effect of smartness, her good clothes, 
her exotic face-powder and her scent, just a little vulgar? Was 
not her savage attack upon Mrs. Clint a sign of some deep 
lack of the essential courtesies of life, and was Eustace a “lovely 
man” in any real sense? He was her husband, so she slid 
quickly away from the question. Husbands had to be perfect. 
Nell, in her strange courage, would have hung, drawn and 
quartered him, giving him credit for his looks and his physical 
charm, but then Nell really did consider her brother perfection. 

A low voice in Georgie’ s heart whispered doubts; she stifled 
it, and reviewed the position more or less geographically. 
“Th’ English” were different. Their code was not hers. Eustace 
as good as said so during the row they had about Comerforth. 
Comerforth, whom she knew very well to be ready to open fire 
upon her on the slightest encouragement. She looked back upon 
her own past flirtations, and sighed. What fun they had been. 
But here a flirtation was a labyrinthine performance, leading 
to queer underground burrows, where people pretended to hide. 

Then there was Religion. Georgie was a Protestant. She still 
went regularly to church and said her prayers. In Ireland 
people went to a lot of trouble to attend service, and many even 
attended evening church; she missed the social feeling of it, 
and she would have liked Clint to go with her, but he always 
made an excuse. The truth was, they did not believe in any- 
thing except motor-cars and some main political principle which 
was established to keep out the hungry masses. Georgie gasped 
a little as she allowed herself to admit this to be the case. Nell’s 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


99 

habit of truthfulness was catching, and it made her nerves 
jump. She felt the big room become suddenly airless. 

Georgie ruffled her hair with an abstracted hand. These 
people caused her an internal sense of chill. People who could 
not worship, and who, though you might not meet them in night 
clubs, or dirty restaurants, were oddly brutal in their attitude. 
What did they know of the shy, happy world where you might 
make love, and still have nothing to be ashamed of when it was 
all over ? 

She got up reluctantly. If only she could go back to Ireland 
for a few weeks, alone. To bring Clint with her would spoil 
it all ; the idea of leaving him never crossed her mind. Husband 
and wife must remain together, and if she went back without 
him it would look “queer.” There was no use thinking of that. 


CHAPTER X 


When the first effect of Lady Mayfield’s arrival had begun to 
wear off a little, Georgie adopted a habit of discounting what 
she said. That explained it : Hell did not mean what she said. 
She was a grown-up child, and her acts or her speech were not 
to be regarded seriously. A bright, sophisticated child of some 
hard, gold dawn, she had been exempt from the troublesome 
rules of everyday mortals. 

Clint delighted in her company, and brother and sister were 
deeply attached to one another, so that Georgie fell a little into 
the position of the third wheel, and made tactful excuses to 
keep away when they seemed to have plans from which she 
might reasonably exclude herself. She need not have troubled, 
but it made it easier for her, rather than for Lady Mayfield, who 
would merely have kissed her and said, “We don’t want you, 
Female, so sit down and twiddle your nice thumbs.” 

Oddly enough, Georgie did not resent her lonely after- 
noons. She had found one or two views which had just a touch 
of home about them. And this was strange. Fancy seeking 
desperately for Ardclare when you had worked heaven and 
earth to leave Ardclare for ever. 

One bright, clear afternoon, when a touch of the brief sad- 
ness of autumn came upon her, Georgie decided to take her 
bicycle and go down to Oxford. The idea was quite exciting, 
and she put on a little blue suit and a close-fitting cap and set 
off. She had been to Oxford and trailed dismally around the 
colleges in the wake of an irascible little professor, who seemed 
to be some kind of clergyman, and who openly disliked her. He 
had known Eustace during his undergraduate days and could 
be friendly, but he ignored Georgie when she said, “Oh, gra- 
cious!” for the twentieth time, having really nothing else to 
say about her impressions. 

Oxford in company with a professor was a mental strain. 
In company with Clint, it meant that she was rushed and 
pushed, because he was usually in a hurry; but alone, it prom- 
ised adventure. There is always a chance of adventure to any 

100 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


IOI 


solitary setting forth, for the young and ardent, and Georgie 
was almost ashamed of her own zest at the prospect of being 
“reely solo” for a bit. 

Her spirits rose as she sped down the hill and came nearer 
to the pencilled outlines of the many spires and the dome of 
the Radcliffe Camera. When she had been told all about these 
buildings, and dates had been forced upon her, she hated them, 
but once she could forget historical facts, Oxford became beau- 
tiful; she had no use for William of Wykeham or Robert 
d’Oigli, but her heart was raised by the fretted spires, clear 
against the pale, soft blue of the sky. 

As she crossed Folly Bridge, the bells began to greet her, or 
they might have warned her “to turn again, turn again” and 
go home, for lonely adventures are sometimes dangerous. 

She left her bicycle at the Teutonic-looking hotel opposite 
the Ashmolean, and began to wander along the streets, peering 
ip through archways, and finding drama in the hasty glimpses 
she snatched through doors which were prohibited to all but 
members of the University. She had a jumbled impression of 
old grey quadrangles, curtained by gorgeous crimson creepers; 
chapels where it was dark, and the stained glass comforting 
and rich in its dim burning colours, and crowds of people whom 
she did not know. Just faces. Heaps and heaps of faces. 

The evening began to grow gusty and wild as she found her- 
self standing in the High Street, and again the achingly, sweet 
summons of the bells broke loose into the sunset. All Saints, 
St. Mary’s, the Cathedral bell, speaking to the burnished sky, 
the sound soaring upwards over the high, irregular line of roofs, 
on its way to the evening star. 

Beyond what adventures one may experience through the 
eyes, or a general feeling that a place is touched with magic, 
Georgie so far had none, and she decided to go back to St. 
Giles’ Place and have tea in the hotel. It was coming to earth 
with rather a bump, but it seemed the only sensible thing to do. 
She prayed that she might not meet Clint’s former tutor, who 
kept poultry and had looked like an irritated hen. She imag- 
ined that he would feel bound to ask her to tea, because she 
still fancied, in her Irish way, that even if people disliked you, 
they offered you tea if they found you far from home. She 
need not have troubled her heart. Clint’s tutor had already 
seen and recognised her, and immediately crossed the road to 
avoid the necessity of so much as raising his hat. 


102 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


Street lamps starred the half-light, and shop-fronts showed 
yellow patches as she went through the hustling crowd which 
overflowed the pavement, and she had very nearly got as far as 
St. Giles’ Place when a man, coming towards her, stopped full 
in her path. 

“I thought it was you,” he said, taking off a rather dilapidated 
hat, and giving an amused little laugh. For a moment she did 
not recognise him, and then she recalled the party to Ardclare, 
when Clint had forsaken her for Veronica. 

“Surely to goodness, it’s Mr. Lousada!” she said joyfully. 
The day was not to be quite empty after all. “Well, of all the 
shocks! What brought you here?” 

“And I might retort,” he replied, “why are you here? I 
assure you it is a far more awful thing for you to be in Oxford 
than for me.” 

“Isn’t that a nice way to talk?” Georgie replied. “Awful, 
indeed !” 

“I said awful, and I mean awful. Awful means awe-inspir- 
ing, and awe is a feeling of sacred dread.” 

“Well, I want a sacred tea,” she said. “Will we have it to- 
gether? I’m married and done for since we met. You heard 
that, I s’pose?” 

Lousada made no direct reply, but they turned, and he walked 
along beside her. 

“Where do we have tea?” he asked. “There is an Irish tea- 
shop somewhere. That should be appropriate.” 

“There’s no tea like Irish tea,” Georgie agreed cheerfully. 

“Even when it comes from India, Ceylon or China?” 

“It comes from Ireland,” she said stoutly; and they walked 
up a narrow flight of steps into a small, warm room, where 
Lousada found a table in an alcove, cut off a little from the rest. 

“Why, it’s like old times.” He looked at her again and 
smiled. 

“And you don’t never drink tea,” she remembered triumph- 
antly. 

Last time they had met she felt afraid of him, but now her 
fear had vanished. She was so much more sure of herself, and 
that day she had been very miserable indeed. 

“And who is Eustace Clint giving tea to this time?” he in- 
quired. 

“His sister, Lady Mayfield. D’you know her, Mr. Lousada?” 

“Yes,” he said carelessly. 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


103 


“Isn’t she up-to-date?” 

“I can’t say. I’m no good at dates.” His eyes smiled again. 

“D’you like her? I know I oughtn’t to be asking personal 
questions. Eustace is for ever at me, not. But do you like 
her?” 

“A little of her goes a good long way,” he replied. But his 
voice informed her that he was not interested. 

“You’ve not wished me joy over my marriage,” she said, 
pouring out a cup of tea for herself, “plory! Man! I wish 
you’d drink. It’s so queer to be watched.” 

“Shall I sit with my back to you, then?” he asked. 

“Don’t mind me at all.” She looked at him with her vivid 
eyes and shook her head. 

“So you get on all right with Clint’s people?” 

Georgie’s mouth was full, and she drank quickly. “I be- 
lieve no one alive gets on with Mrs. Clint,” she said. “But 
Nell is the grandest fun. Anyone’d get on with her.” 

“And they are all doing their level best to spoil you.” 

“Is it spoil? I don’t know all about that. I’m often in dis- 
grace with poor Eustace.” 

“I meant another kind of ‘spoil,’” he said. “It’s a queer 
word, and means a heap of different things.” 

“You’re awfully good at words,” she replied. “D’you read 
the dictionary, now ?” 

“Not now,” he remarked. “Have a cigarette?” 

“Will I shock these proper-looking people at the middle table 
if I do ?” she asked, taking one from his case as she spoke. 

“They don’t seem to me to matter particularly,” he said 
absently. 

“All right, so.” Georgie lighted her cigarette. “Anyhow, 
half the fun is shocking people, isn’t it ?” 

“Have you succeeded in shocking Lady Mayfield?” He had 
lighted a cigarette, and returned his case to his pocket. 

Georgie screwed up her lips. “I’m not fit,” she said with a 
slightly perplexed look. “It would take more than the likes of 
me to shock her.” 

Lousada looked at her steadily and said nothing for a time. 

“So you are happy,” he remarked at last. “You did what you 
wanted to do ?” 

She put her elbows on the table and began to reflect carefully. 

“Yes, I am happy. Of course, it’s not old times, you’ll under- 
stand, and one grows a bit lonesome for the past. But it’s all 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


104 

in the day’s work, and Dada is happy.” Her eyes grew soft as 
she spoke of her father. “You see, I’m awfully fond of Dada.” 

He nodded silently. 

“There’s days when I feel that Finney might have been best 
for me.” 

“Finney? Was he one of them?” 

“No,” she made a movement of her hands. “I never flirted 
with Finney, but I could easily have married him.” 

“If you had, you might still be saying much the same things,” 
he suggested, and he seemed sure of what he said. “That is how 
life usually tricks us.” 

“Oh, well . . .” Georgie grew vague. 

“And the flesh-pots are a success ?” he swept her face with his 
keen, intense look. “And will continue to be sufficient ?” 

“Why not ?” she asked quickly. 

“Exactly. Why not? Only a question.” 

“I’m crazy about Eustace,” she retorted defiantly. 

“And he? Is he a devout husband?” He pulled himself up 
quickly. “Forgive me, I am becoming impertinent.” 

“Indeed you are,” she said a little stiffly. “It’s as if you 
didn’t much like Eustace. Aren’t you thick with him ?” 

“I know him very little. We were here together, but not 
what I should call friends.” 

“Is that so ?” Georgie remarked in surprise. 

“But you must not jump to the conclusion that I dislike him. 
Perhaps you would be nearer the truth if you felt that I like 
you rather better.” 

She wondered again for a moment, and then laughed cheer- 
fully. 

“Like or dislike, it’s late hours, Mr. Lousada, and time for 
this infant to be on the road for home. Oh, it’s a fearful bother 
to have to change my clothes, every tack, or the servants think 
you were brought up poor, and they hate the poor.” 

“Every tack !” he repeated. “What a trial !” 

“And all silk,” she said confidentially. “Fearfully expensive.” 

She got up, and Lousada paid the bill and followed her out 
into the Broad, where a clear moon was illuminating the for- 
eign-looking street. Georgie stood gazing upwards for a time, 
her hands clasped. 

“It’s like a prayer,” she said suddenly. “When I look at the 
moon I wonder at ourselves, Mr. Lousada, and why it is we 
aren’t different.” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 105 

“Don’t be any different,” be said slowly. “Don’t let them 
change you. Call things what you always called them, and 
put up a fight for your individuality.” 

“They might snap at you, and say I couldn’t be changed,” 
she said as they walked into the black shadows of the houses, 
“and all this time we’ve said nothing at all about you. Isn’t 
that too bad?” 

“There isn’t anything to say,” he replied. 

“Why are you here? What are you up to? D’you know, I 
don’t even know what you are?” 

“ ‘A thing of shreds and patches,’ ” he said. “A wanderer, 
no silk or anything handsome about me.” 

“Are you an author?” she asked tentatively. “You have a 
look of something unusual.” 

“God forbid!” he spoke emphatically. “No, I’m one of those 
loose ends, that you hear about.” 

Georgie considered for a moment. She felt that he must have 
an occupation of some kind. Detail was precious to her, and 
she liked to be informed upon all points. She wished to know 
where he had been to school, and whether he had a place of his 
own. If his mother and father were alive ; if he had any sisters, 
and the date of his birthday, as well as how old he was. 

“I expect you’re a heap older than Eustace,” she remarked 
as an opening. 

“So much younger, that we might have been born in different 
ages,” he said shortly. 

“Gracious ! Is that so ? You don’t look less than thirty.” 

“I wasn’t thinking of years.” He took her elbow to pilot her 
through the crowd of people. “It is a matter of instinct. Your 
Eustace is, unfortunately for himself, a survival. Always a bad 
mistake.” 

“What happens to survivals ?” she asked rather anxiously. 

“They get swept away.” 

“Swept away!” she echoed with a little gasp. “But what do 
you do ? Are you a solicitor ? I once knew a very nice solicitor. 
He rode well, and had light hair and a good practice. Some- 
times they’re very nice men.” 

“I work in a dirty, antiquated Government office,” he said, 
“where I do what I’m told, more or less.” 

They had reached the hotel, and Georgie stood on the steps 
as he went inside to get her bicycle. People were arriving and 
departing, and she watched them with interest. There were 


io6 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


such thousands of people in the world ; most of them in a hurry, 
and rather cross. They behaved as if there was no one else there, 
and she was pushed about by them, as they passed in and out, 
occupied by their own affairs. At last Lousada joined her and 
wheeled her bicycle into the road. 

“When will I see you again ?” she asked. 

Lousada shook his head. “I don’t know.” 

“But I will see you, won’t I ?” 

“If Fate decides that we meet, we shall meet.” 

She looked at him and wondered. He was not “a lovely man” 
like Eustace, and his clothes were neat rather than smart, while 
his hat was a disgrace. Yet he looked commanding though he 
was not tall, and there was something very memorable in him, 
which she could not define. 

“Is it leave it to Fate ?” she asked, a little distressed by his in- 
difference. 

“Entirely so. Appointments are futile things. It is far more 
interesting to find out what may or may not be significant.” 

“You’re awfully troublesome to understand,” she fingered the 
shining handle bar of her bicycle, “I haven’t an idea what you 
mean. Reely, now.” 

Lousada took off his hat and smoothed his reddish hair. He 
was laughing to himself, and he shrugged his shoulders. “We 
met by sheer accident, the first time,” he said. 

“Yes, you tramping over my feet,” she agreed. 

“To-day it was another accident. Had I tried to see you, I 
might have failed, or met you at the wrong time, which is worse 
than not meeting at all.” 

“Oh, I see,” she grasped at his idea. “It’s a game.” 

“Exactly. Hide-and-seek, of a kind,” he nodded. “Rather 
fun, in a way, don’t you think?” 

“I s’pose so,” she was still a little reluctant. “You’d not come 
and call at The Gleanings ?” 

“Not for anything,” he said with conviction. 

“Then good-bye to you.” She held out her hand, which he 
took rather limply. 

“Thinking of all those tacks ?” he asked. 

“Yes, bad luck to them.” 

She mounted her bicycle and sped away like yet another 
shadow flitting through the great, draughty space of St. Gile’s, 
but her heart was light, and the dim hall of memories did not 
claim a thought from her. She was pleased with her little ad- 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


107 

venture, because it was at once intriguing- and innocent. Per- 
haps she had beemrather free in her comments upon Mrs. Clint, 
for she found it difficult to remember or believe that Clint’s 
people were her people, and his god her god. Lousada was 
different to anyone else she knew, and he had made a very 
definite impression on her mind. She had not discovered who he 
really was but she felt that he was important in spite of what 
he said. He had been at the Duns’, which, in itself, was a 
certificate. The Duns did not entertain unauthorised young 
men; but he had not said anything of his own people, nor 
whether he was engaged to be married. 

She arrived late for dinner, and came into the dining-room 
half-way through the meal. Eustace looked very well pleased 
with himself, and a girl called Averil Markham, who seemed 
to have arrived from nowhere, was added to the party. Osten- 
sibly she was a friend of Nell’s. 

“I met Averil, motoring herself to Wantage,” Nell said as 
Georgie was introduced, “and asked her to stay for the week- 
end here. You are pleased, are you, Woman?” 

“I’m reely delighted,” Georgie said hospitably. “It’s grand. 
I hope you have all you want ?” 

Miss Markham looked at her with a slight smile. She was a 
dark-haired girl with a pale face, and wore a curiously em- 
broidered green dress. She appeared to be very young, and yet 
Georgie felt like a child as she returned the steady look. 

“If I had everything I want, I should explode,” she replied in 
a voice which sounded like artificial waves beating on a purely 
imaginary beach, but for all that, was musical and attractive. 

“She talks like that at first,” Lady Mayfield explained. “Don’t 
you, old rat ?” 

“I mean, did you have a bath ?” Georgie asked earnestly. She 
wished to be the complete hostess. 

“Good egg!” Nell laughed unrestrainedly. “Georgie Porgie 
is thinking of a workhouse. They always scrub the incoming 
guests on arrival, Av, for necessary and sufficient reasons.” 

“You’re very late,” Clint said, making his first remark sihce 
she entered the room. He really did look extremely handsome, 
Georgie thought, and the Greek line of his features gave him a 
lingering touch of something more striking than a merely good- 
looking modern. She caught her new guest looking at him 
also, as she smoked, with silent interest, and she told herself 
how lucky she was. 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


108 

“I went down t’ Oxford,” she said, hurrying through her 
soup. “And who in the world should I meet but Lousada 

“Rotten fellow,” Eustace remarked sharply. “We were at the 
House together. Not that I ever had anything to say to him.” 

“Lousada? Oh, rather a pet,” Lady Mayfield chimed in. 
“I’ve always wondered what he would be like if he were madly 
in love with me. He isn’t, that’s the tragedy. Hid you ask 
him here, Female?” 

“I did, but he won’t come. Isn’t it awfully funny, Nell?” 

“A perfect scream,” she replied. ‘‘No one can fathom the 
depths. I wonder if you could, Av, you’re so deep yourself.” 

Miss Markham aroused herself for a moment from her 
thoughts, and replied that he was a bore. 

“Did you talk to him?” Eustace asked more pacifically. 

“We had tea at th’Irish tea shop. At least I had. He doesn’t 
never drink tea. Fancy that, Eustace. He said you’n he had 
been at college together.” 

“What is he doing in Oxford?” 

“I don’t know a bit about him,” Georgie replied. “But it was 
the grandest fun. He says the queerest things.” 

“What sort of things?” Averil asked. 

“Oh, I don’t know. Talks of Fate and all that. . . . He 
believes in Fate.” 

Lady Mayfield glanced at her brother. “You’d better look 
into this, mon brave” she remarked. “We all know where that 
kind of conversation leads to.” 

Miss Markham returned to her thoughts, and her eyes 
wandered momentarily to Clint’s face. 

Later on in the evening Georgie discovered that Miss Mark- 
ham wrote poems, which she felt accounted for her unusually 
composed manners. Averil sat with two long silk-stockinged 
legs thrust out, and added very little to the conversation, but 
Clint, who appeared to appreciate her silence, kept her supplied 
with cigarettes. 

“Is she awfully clever?” Georgie asked him, when he came 
yawning into their room, wearing a gorgeous suit of pyjamas. 
“I don’t like the shape of her nose. There was a girl in Ard- 
clare in the draper’s shop with the exact same of a nose, and 
I never liked her. She married a cooper.” 

Georgie’s reminiscences of Ardclare did not inspire Eustace. 
“Miss Markham is a niece of Lady Standerton’s,” he remarked, 
“so there can hardly be any relationship.” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


109 


She felt that he intended his reply as a snub. 

“Maybe, but she has the exact ditto of a nose as Ellen Flynn, 
only Ellen would never sit and show her legs that way. Did you 
notice it, Eustace?” 

Georgie was sitting up in bed, her thick plaits falling over her 
white shoulders. How pretty she was, he thought, and how 
dreadfully her speech was beginning to jar. 

“When you say things like that,” he replied, “you only show 
your own ignorance.” 

“Ignorance? Surely to goodness, I know legs when I see 
them,” she laughed, “and so do you, Eustace. Miss Markham 
has an eye,” Georgie shook a finger at him. “Didn’t I catch 
her at it. She was gazing and gazing at you.” 

He made a remark under his breath, which she did *not hear. 

“It’s my belief,” she continued archly, “that it wasn’t Nell 
she came to see after all, or if she did, when she caught sight 
of you, she made up her mind to stop on.” 

“Georgie,” he said, “don’t talk like that.” 

Her face changed and she looked hurt. “It was all by way 
of no harm,” she answered, crestfallen and distressed. “You 
know I meant nothing but a bit of fun. If the girl took a fancy 
to you, what matter? I was awfully gone on Duncarrig one 
time, myself, when I was sixteen. Praying that Lady Dun’d 
die, and give me an innings. I used to dream of him, reely I 
did, and when he’d be reading the lessons, I shivered like an 
aspen. If Miss Markham had a fancy for you, itself, I’d be the 
last to wonder at her, Eustace, for don’t I know what a Ben 
Juan you are?”. 

“I suppose you mean Don Juan,” he said, still irritated. 
“And if you do, it’s not altogether complimentary.” 

“You’re a fine man, God bless you,” she said, snuggling into 
his arms. “Lousada can’t touch you in looks, whatever it may 
be when it comes to brains.” 

Eustace kissed her. He still liked kissing her, but the idea 
that Lousada had made fun of her haunted him. 

“I hope you were careful of what you said. Lousada is not a 
man to confide in.” 

“I think so,” she replied. “He’s awfully nice, Eustace, reely 
nice, I mean. Not like Comerforth.” 

“You are idiotic about Comerforth,” he said sleepily. “He is 
no different to anyone else.” 

Georgie’s body grew rigid. “That’s a lie,” she said, awaking 


no 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


him from the edge of slumber. “To be married to a nice, decent 
girl like Constance, and go on as he does is scandalous. If you 
were that sort, I’d — God ! What would I do ?” 

“Well, I’m not. Only it’s nothing unusual,” he replied, and 
after that he refused to speak any more. 


CHAPTER XI 


Averil Markham flitted away in her car without having been 
once seen to speak to Clint, except when he gave her cigarettes. 
She just sat there with her elegant legs well in evidence, and 
thought, but she did not say what she was thinking of. Georgie 
concluded that she was composing poetry, and should not be dis- 
turbed; so she and Nell continued to chatter together, their com- 
bined voices giving the effect of a magpie and a thrush holding 
a public meeting. 

“Tell it not in Gath!” Georgie said, when Miss Markham had 
put on her leather coat and departed, “but I’m glad to be shut 
of her, Nell. Isn’t she awfully silent?” 

“She’s a queer cove,” Lady Mayfield replied. “Always up to 
something, and no one has ever caught her out” ; she looked at 
her sister-in-law reflectively. “You are the very opposite to 
Averil, you funny little creature. I can quite understand why 
our sainted mother hates you. You are so amazingly frank. 
Averil is a born intriguer, and even I don’t really know her in 
the least.” 

Georgie was arranging a vase, and her eyes were on a group 
of tawny chrysanthemums. “Th’English are queer,” she said. 
“Would you believe it now, Nell, but to this day I’m never sure 
what Eustace is thinking about.” 

“Nothing,” Eleanor replied with a laugh. “He doesn’t think, 
he goes on without. Are you as devoted as ever, you two ?” 

“Why, of course we are.” 

“No sign of any sons or daughters ?” Lady Mayfield inquired ; 
and Georgie looked confused and startled. 

“Why, no,” she said quickly. “But there’s time enough, isn’t 
there ?” 

Lady Mayfield put a chocolate in her mouth, and shut one 
eye. “It would be a bore,” she said judicially. “Yet, in a way, 
it’s rather a safe move. Eustace is the kind of man who would 
like children, and go bounding up to the nursery, two steps at 
a time, and get a heap of value out of fussing over them. I 
think, if I were you, I’d do it.” 

Ill 


1 12 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


Georgie laid down the flowers she held, and looked at 
Eleanor. “It’s not the way that I don’t want any,” she said, 
her eyes lowered, “I’d love to have one, indeed I would, only I 
s’pose one must be patient.” 

Lady Mayfield stared at her rather blankly. “Then, you 
mean you haven’t been putting it off ?” 

Georgie returned the blank look, with another quite as blank. 
“Surely to goodness, how could I?” she asked. “It’s fate, I 
s’pose.” 

Eleanor stifled a laugh. “You holy innocent,” she said 
evasively. “I might have known that. Only it’s a pity.” She 
looked round the bright room and considered for a time. “It’s 
very necessary , for your own sake. If you don’t anchor Eustace, 
he may grow restive; tie a man on to a perambulator, and he’ll 
stay put, in nine cases out of ten.” 

Georgie shook her head. “It’s the will of God,” she said 
with solemnity. 

Once again Lady Mayfield appeared to be on the verge of an 
outbreak, but she conquered herself with an effort. She was 
growing to understand Georgie better, and concluded that the 
distant rectory was answerable for much. 

“Don’t be an ass, old dear,” she said. “It is a world of 
progress, and if I were you, I’d go and see a specialist.” 

“Then I’ll not,” Georgie replied, crimson in the face. “I’d 
not think it a nice thing to do at all.” 

“You needn’t tell Eustace.” 

“I tell Eustace everything,” she answered, coming to the fire 
and stretching out her hands. “I’d call it mean, not to. When 
you’re married you ought to have no secrets.” 

“If I were to tell Wilfred everything, he’d have a fit,” Eleanor 
said argumentatively. “It might be an idea, really, but in 
decent society, Georgie, we don’t.” 

“Eustace hasn’t secrets,” Georgie said defiantly. 

“Do you mean that he gave you a detailed account of his 
patchwork past? Nonsense, it would have taken a year.” 

“I know about the divorce case, if that is what you mean,” 
Georgie said, averting her eyes. “But it’s too bad to be dis- 
cussing him this way. Since we g&t married it’s been different.” 

“Have a chocolate?” Lady Mayfield offered the white box. 
“And don’t be idiotic. All men are the same. Once they get 
what they want you have to find some other way of keeping 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


ii3 

them. Some women play around, and keep up competition, but 
my theory for you and Eustace, is a nursery.” 

Georgie helped herself absently. “I don’t feel that way,” 
she said slowly. “Husband and wife are husband and wife.” 

“Have it your own way then,” Lady Mayfield said pacifically, 
“only don’t blame me if he gives you trouble.” 

“He’ll not give me trouble, and I’ll blame it on no one,” 
Georgie said. “You and Wilfred are different. He’s an old 
gentleman, I’m told, and naturally you’d not feel the same, even 
though he is very nice.” 

“Which he isn’t,” Nell retorted. “He is a horried old man, 
Georgie. If I were to telLyou the things I know about him, 
you’d faint or scream, so I’ll spare you.” 

Georgie looked at her pitifully. It seemed so sad. “I’m 
awfully put out to hear that,” she said. “Couldn’t you get 
separated? Dada thinks that divorce is an awful sin, but I 
once heard him say that he thought if people hated the sight 
of each other ’twas best they should part. Mightn’t you part 
Wilfred?” 

“No such luck,” Lady Mayfield said cheerfully. “There are 
heaps of reasons why I have to stick it out, and it’s not so bad 
as it looks, mind you. I married him because he was a very 
rich man.” 

Georgie stared at the fire. She could understand this point. 
She too had known the pressure of circumstances in the past. 

“Wasn’t I one of the lucky ones?” she said with a sigh of 
content. “Imagine it, Nell, to be marrying the man I wanted, 
and he is as rich as a Jew into the bargain.” 

“All the same,” Lady Mayfield urged, “you should take 
measures to keep him, Female; it’s only common sense.” 

“He never looks at anyone else.” Georgie tossed her head, 
and Lady Mayfield studied her rings, holding her fingers close 
to her nose, and said nothing in reply. 

Georgie was sorry for Nell when she thought over their con- 
versation. She meant kilidly, but her ways were other than 
those of th’ Irish, and so her advice was wasted. It was true 
that Georgie had married one of th’ English, which caused Nell 
to consider herself an oracle, but she did not know Eustace. 
Georgie had a strong feeling that husband and wife were one, 
and that it was not Lady Mayfield’s business to offer advice, 
however kindly she meant it. 

A few days later her sister-in-law went away, and left rather 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


114 

a blank behind her. Eustace missed her even more than 
Georgie, but again the steady current of their lives caught 
them and they drifted contentedly onwards. 

Christmas came and passed, and the New Year brought them 
the first anniversary of their wedding. Georgie recalled it all 
in detail, and her memories of Ardclare awoke and cried. She 
sent good presents to Dada and Miss White, and read their let- 
ters with avidity. The smallest piece of news was cherished, 
and she was almost fretful because they all told her so little. 
She wanted to know the private affairs of every one in Ardclare, 
and they seemed to imagine that in her life of gaiety she would 
not be interested in Mary Fagan’s wedding with the postman, or 
to hear what had happened to Amy Sherrard, the servant at the 
hotel. She read of Mr. Finney’s engagement to a girl from 
Cork with a kind of pang. He was marrying a Catholic, and 
Mr. Desmond felt that he had fallen from grace. It was 
whispered that he went to Father O’Carrol to “receive instruc- 
tion,” and he no longer sang in the Ardclare choir. Feeling 
was running high on the subject, and Mr. Finney was socially 
damned. 

The Duncarrigs were in residence again and, as Georgie 
already knew, Veronica was engaged to a Spanish count who 
was also there on a visit, to the excitement of the whole neigh- 
bourhood. Milson Rogers had begun* to keep racers and was 
making it pay, and “me grandmother” was still alive, but had 
to be kept in ignorance of the fact, for she disapproved of rac- 
ing as well as of cards, and believed that her grandson upheld 
her views. He still attended church, morning and evening, on 
Sundays, and was good to Mr. Desmond. 

In the heavy Christmas atmosphere of The Gleanings, 
Georgie’s heart grew sore with longing for her home, and she 
even suggested to Eustace that they might go over to Ireland, 
just for a week. 

“It would be grand t’see Dada again, and dear old Miss White. 
I’d give the eyes out of my head for a sight of them all, 
Eustace.” 

“We can’t go,” he answered, looking up from a letter written 
on paper of a curious green shade, which was covered with 
straggling writing, unfamiliar to Georgie, and as she got up 
and came from her place to where he sat, he slipped it into his 
pocket. “How can we? The Duncarrigs haven’t asked us 
there, and the hotel is vile.” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 115 

“You usen’t to think so, darling,” she said, her hands on his 
shoulders. “Once you had it that ’twas reely a nice place 
enough, and I’d not mind. I’m well used to it of old.” 

“Things were different then,” he said, looking at her critically. 
“Who on earth gave you that awful horseshoe brooch?” 

Georgie flushed and drew away. “’Twas Dada’s present to 
me, and I value it more than anything I got,” she replied. 
“Dada’s the dearest lamb, isn’t he, to think of me, and so don’t 
be contemptuous, Eustace. Your mother sent me an account 
book. What sort of a present is that? Oh, my! Do you re- 
member how ratty you were last year with poor Finney and his 
cakes of soap ? He’s marrying a Catholic, and they are all out 
with him now. I’d like to see him, Eustace, and all the rest of 
them.” 

“It’s an awful gossiping little hole,” Clint said firmly. “They 
tore you to bits, Georgie, all these friends of yours. Why do 
you want to go and stir them up again?” 

“Because I do,” she said, her eyes full of thoughts. “Dada 
would be delighted, and Miss White, let alone Milson. Did I 
tell you he’s not consoled, so far?” 

Clint made a sound of disgust. “Dreadful creature,” he said. 
“I thought you had learnt better.” 

“Ah, now,” Georgie began to coax, and put her head on his 
shoulder. “One week, Eustace, just to please me? I like dearly 
to be here, but to go over t’ Ireland would be the finest old fun. 
Sometimes it seems dreadfully far away.” 

Eustace did not feel quite comfortable or easy as she bent 
over him, and he took her hands in his. 

“We’ll think about it,” he said. 

“And did you have any nice news ?” Georgie asked. “Who is 
it writes to you on green paper?” she laughed in his ear. “Was 
it Lady Dun, sending you her love and all the rest of it ? I be- 
lieve it was, Eustace; or Veronica? She’s engaged to a 
Spaniard, and he is a fearfully dashing fellow, like a prince. 
Miss White says. And your nose is out of joint. It’s as bad 
as Finney and myself.” 

“So mother sent you an account book?” he asked. “Show it 
to me. What a damn silly present.” 

“Don’t be saying that.” She returned to her place and took 
up a stoutly-bound book with thick clasps. “There y’are, 
Eustace. Week’s expenses, month’s expenses, the quarter’s ex- 


n6 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


penses, and up to the year ! Th’ English are a queer lot, aren’t 
they now ? Always dead set on money.” 

“Better than being hopelessly in debt,” he remarked. 

“I’m blest if it is,” Georgie retorted. “I’d feel as mean as 
anything if I entered up all I spent here or there.” 

“I suppose she thinks you ought to balance your allowance,” 
he said, but his mind had wandered. 

Snow was falling quietly outside the big windows, and the 
stretch of green grass was covered with a deep carpet of white, 
which threw hard reflections into the room. It deepened the 
shadows under Georgie’s eyes, and made the lines of Clint’s 
mouth look more definite than usual. 

“Nell is coming back to us at th’ end of the month,” Georgie 
said, referring to a letter beside her plate. “We could manage 
a week in Ardclare before she comes.” 

“Possibly,” he replied. 

“For sure and certain,” Georgie laughed at him. “A promise 
is a promise, and you’ve as good as agreed. I’ll write to Miss 
White and Dada, and engage rooms at th’ hotel.” 

“You aren’t to do that,” he said uneasily. “I may have busi- 
ness in London.” 

“Bother London. Tell your grandmother that, Eustace.” 

“But I may have to go,” he replied. 

“I never shall like London,” Georgie said, shaking her head, 
“and if you go, I’ll have to go.” 

“Not if you don’t want to. There’s no reason, Georgie.” 

“Of course there’s reason. I’ll go if you must, but we might 
take it on the way. Oh, Eustace, you don’t think I’d be so 
mean as to stop here, and have you there in some big hotel, 
away from me.” 

“I could stay at my club,” he said, and he did not look at 
her. “It bores you, and would only be for a day or two.” He 
got up and walked to the window, watching the snow, with its 
steady, hypnotic fall. 

“Let’s leave it over until Nell comes,” she said. “Then if you 
must go, she’n I could be together.” 

“Very well,” he agreed, and he lounged out of the room. 

One thing was certain, Clint did not want to go to Ireland. 
He regarded the prospect with dislike, and the idea of hanging 
about while Georgie was drawn afresh into the bosom of her old 
associations, did not appeal to him at all. He wanted freedom, 
and Georgie’s ideas of what marriage entailed were so over- 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


117 

whelming. She thought it her duty to shadow him, and felt 
that unless he came with her to Ireland, she was prohibited 
from going there. Old-fashioned ideas were all very well, but 
they had their drawbacks, and Clint swore to himself as he once 
more took out the letter written on green paper and read it 
again. Nell had warned him with unusual seriousness that 
Georgie, for all her outward lightness, was at heart a Mrs. 
Grundy ; and he would do well to bear that in mind. 

He was in love with her, but was accustomed to variety, and 
he had lived through a whole year of constant association with 
his wife. In that year he had come to wish that Georgie was 
less strictly particular upon some points. She had changed 
very little, and he had given up his first efforts to make her 
speak proper English. Her attempts to please him in this 
respect were a hopeless failure, and now she was becoming a 
positive care. He wondered at her lack of sense. Any woman 
ought to know that no man whose bachelor days had been free 
and easy in quite untrammelled liberty ever settles down com- 
pletely at once. So far as he was concerned Clint felt that he 
could invariably return to Georgie with real satisfaction, but 
he wanted to get free now and then, and once he wanted a thing 
he usually made it his business to get what he desired. He had 
an uncomfortable feeling that he could not fool Georgie by 
telling her an easy lie; and also, if she discovered him in a 
lie, as Nell said, she would be dangerous. 

“Poor Georgie Porgie, she’s such a good little soul, Eustace, 
even though she is really impossible in heaps of ways.” 

Yet Nell and he were pals, and he had been of use to her 
/ more than once, and Eustace reasoned that his sister might 
come to his assistance over such a harmless little affair as the 
one he had in his mind. He even persuaded himself that it was 
harmless, though he very well knew that if it had been, he would 
not have troubled himself further. 

He decided to write, and make time. Circumstances might 
assist matters, and if Georgie was so mad keen to go to Ireland 
she could do so without him. So long as the suggestion came 
from another quarter, this seemed feasible enough. All he need 
do for the present was to appear to agree with her, and let his 
plans mature. 

Clint felt better once he had arranged things with himself 
definitely, and he sat down and wrote a long reply to the lady 
of the green notepaper. 


n8 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


Georgie, too, was writing in her warm, gay room, and telling 
Dada that he might expect to see her and Eustace in a week or 
two. “I’m longing to see you all. Tell Kate to make me a 
sponge-cake, and Miss White to be sure to be on the station 
when I arrive. Don’t be bothered at all about dinner, we can 
spend the day with you, and have our meals at the hotel. I’m 
awfully sorry to hear about Finney, but perhaps it is all for the 
best, if he likes the girl truly. I’d be wild if Eustace and me 
didn’t go to church together. . . .” She stopped and bit her 
pen. Better not tell Dada that Eustace never went to church 
at all; but anyhow, he did not go to Mass, which might look 
even worse in Dada’s eyes. 

“I’ll give Milson the fright of his life, and threaten to -tell 
old Mrs. Rogers that he’s taken to racing and card games. Ask 
him to meet me, Dada darling, for though it is fine to be living 
in England, I’ve never once put the old friends out of my heart. 
I’ll go have tea with Mrs. Francis and pull her leg with all the 
grandeur I’m having over here. Two lords and a countess, as 
well as several baronets, and baronesses, on the visiting list; 
won’t she be mad when she hears all that? I’d like to have a 
day with the hounds. Is Garry well, and does Milson have him 
in good form? If he hasn’t I’ll make him hop, and will go to 
the stables myself to see that he gets his fifteen pounds of white 
oats a day. Be sure and tell Milson not to give him black, cheap 
stuff, and not what I’d expect at all. Oh, I’m just wild to think 
how soon I’ll really be back to you, Dada, and I’ll play the organ 
the Sunday I’m in it. I suppose Ardclare is in no way changed, 
but when I see it myself I’d feel like giving it a big hug. So 
you see from all this, that though I’m having the time of my life, 
and it’s splendid to have got to England, I have as warm a 
comer in my heart as ever for Ardclare. Don’t be too hard on 
poor Finney. Perhaps he knows best himself, and religion 
mayn’t matter so much as love, if he loves the girl truly.” 

Clint came in andf asked her if she had any letters, as he was 
going to walk as far as the post office. 

“I’ve just finished,” she said, addressing the envelope in her 
ill-formed handwriting. “Poor Dada will be as happy as a lark 
when he reads that.” 

“As happy as a lark! Rather a dismal lark,” Clint com- 
mented. “Where did you get your spirits from, Georgie?” he 
smiled at her, as her face dimpled in response. 

“Where did I get them, is it? At a jumble sale.” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 119 

Clint kissed her and told himself that she was dearer to him 
than anyone else on earth, and went out into the snowy world, 
where great lakes of pale blue sky were now making clear ways 
overhead. The wind was icy but invigorating, and he wondered 
whether he was not rather a fool to answer the letter which 
the morning post had brought to him. 


CHAPTER XH 


A fortnight passed, and still Clint had not agreed to go to 
Ireland. He had produced a whole string of reasons why the 
visit should be postponed, none of which convinced Georgie. 
She was restless and dissatisfied, and a prolonged frost put 
hunting out of the question, so that the usual landmarks of the 
week were obliterated, and time hung heavy, and dragged along 
on halting steps. Eustace was suffering from an attack of 
boredom, and with nothing to do proved himself an irritable 
companion. He began to criticise her again, and Georgie did 
not accept his comments in any humble spirit. Lady Mayfield 
descended upon them when things were getting to a stage when 
they quarrelled about everything, and they both welcomed her 
with great pleasure. 

Nell had plenty to say about most things, and had taken a 
quick impulsive liking to Georgie, who seemed to her to be the 
most unique girl she had ever met. She was “impossible” in 
the sense that she was so astonishingly ignorant of the ordinary 
ways of life, and her speech was an abiding joy to listen to. 
Lady Mayfield recognised that Georgie was a sportsman, and 
an answering chord struck in her shallow heart. She saw her 
independently of their relationship, but felt that the relation- 
ship was the one mistake. Eustace was the last man to embark 
on anything unusual in the way of a wife. He would not con- 
tinue to remain charmed, and once the spell broke and the 
fascination waned, there was likely to be sore trouble ahead for 
Georgie Porgie. 

Upon her arrival at The Gleanings, she realised that there 
was a rift in the lute, and shook her fluffy head over it sorrow- 
fully. Even though she was fond of Georgie, her allegiance was 
to her brother, and she thought chiefly of how it affected him. 
They had always been friends, standing together against Mrs. 
Clint and playing into each other’s hands faithfully. 

Nell was an intriguer by nature, and preferred a circuitous 
path to a straight one. If she had wanted the pepper pot she 
would have opened fire by talking of pagodas or perambulators. 

120 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


121 


And with this her surface frankness was tremendous, so that 
usually no one guessed her secret; but it was known to her 
brother, and added to his confidence in her. She brought with 
her a whole collection of stories about her mother, who had been 
more than usually disagreeable and was now coldly savage 
towards her daughter-in-law on account of the absence of any 
hint of grandchildren, but she spared Georgie the repetition of 
angry comments, and confided them in the ears of Clint. 

Seeking him out in his smoking-room, Lady Mayfield perched 
herself on the fender and looked at Eustace. He was dressed in 
a rough suit of greenish homespun, and his low collar displayed 
the fine shape of his throat. His handsome face was rather 
dull and he was drinking a whisky and soda, though it was early, 
and altogether it took no special acumen to realise that Eustace 
was thoroughly out of sorts. To cheer him, she repeated Mrs. 
Clint’s last mots about Georgie, feeling that they might fire him 
into championship of his wife, but he only swore at Mrs. Clint 
and looked more like a gloomy Greek statue than before. 

“It’s this Irish business,” he said lugubriously. “I don’t want 
to go to Ardclare, Nell, it’s damned uncomfortable at the hotel, 
and then the Duncarrigs haven’t asked us there. Anyone could 
see that it would be infernally awkward for us in the circum- 
stances.” 

“ ‘Lady Hun’ is hostile,” she remarked, screwing up her 
mouth. “Yet I suppose it’s natural for Georgie to want to go 
back. She is devoted to her father, I gather.” 

“God knows why,” Clint replied. “He wanted to get rid of 
her. Put her up for the highest bidder.” 

“She is full of illusions,” Lady Mayfield laughed. “All very 
well in theory, but rather hampering to one’s actions.” 

“Well, I don’t want to go to Ireland, and she can’t let me 
alone over it.” 

“Why not let her go alone ?” Lady Mayfield asked. “I’ll stop 
on and keep house for you, old boy.” 

Eustace brightened perceptibly. “I wish to God she would, 
but she thinks — ” he shrugged his shoulders. “She has such 
hopelessly antiquated notions. Couldn’t you give her a hint, 
Nell?” 

Eleanor laughed unrestrainedly. “But I dare not. I’m not 
equal to it. You’ll have to get influenza and a doctor’s certifi- 
cate if you want so much as a room to yourself.” 

Eustace fiddled with his glass. “And if she went alone she 


122 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


would be far happier; could play round with all the old lot — 
such a lot, simply beyond description. If I tackle her about it, 
she goes off in a tantrum, but she might listen to you.” He 
looked at her steadily with his large bovine eyes, and appeared 
extremely solemn. 

There was silence between them for a few minutes, and then 
Lady Mayfield spoke, and what she said had no apparent refer- 
ence to the subject of their conversation. “Did you see Averil ?” 
she remarked casually. 

Clint looked down. “Yes,” he said unwillingly, “I did.” 

Again there was a little gulf of silence. “Is she coming 
here ?” Eleanor asked, her head tilted a little to one side. 

“If I can manage it. There’s no earthly harm in it, Nell.” 

“No — oh, no,” she replied quickly. “Still, Averil isn’t at all 
as innocent as Georgie.” 

Clint said nothing, but sat looking into the fire. 

“It is a bit risky. Averil . . . you know,” his sister went on. 
“She’s tremendously attractive.” 

“Look here, old girl,” Clint got up and put his hand on 
Eleanor’s shoulder. “I’ll be honest with you, and you know 
what men are, so I needn’t explain.” He had rather a heavy 
way of supplying detail, and she nodded at him; already she 
guessed what was coming. “It’s not that I’m not in love with 
Georgie.” The explanation had to come, after all ; Clint 
couldn’t proceed without it. “I do love her. I married her 
without a penny to her name, and I’ve given her everything 
she wants. She’s made a damn good bargain, if it comes to 
that, though I don’t want to rub in the money side of it.” 

“You never should have married her,” Lady Mayfield said 
emphatically. “A hopeless error, Eustace.” 

“Well, I did, and I don’t regret it,” he said; “but having 
given her all I have, I never imagined that it meant that I must 
also lose my entire liberty. That’s what Georgie has done ; she’s 
got me in leading strings, and it won’t answer.” 

“I always said so. In fact I told Gee so myself.” 

“If I could go and come without this perpetual inquisition 
we’d be as right as rain,” he went on. “It’s so silly, so damned 
silly to have a wife who is shocked by this and shocked by that; 
and, mind you, she had a tearing reputation of her own in Ire- 
land. Hot stuff, and that kind of thing; it jolly nearly scup- 
pered her, but it’s untrue.” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


123 

“You do amuse me,” Eleanor said. ‘You and she. I never 
heard anything so funny.” 

“I’m not going to explain,” Clint said again, “but there it is, 
Nell; I’ve made up my mind to have a holiday.” 

“Who with ?” she asked, raising her faint eyebrows. “I always 
said that a wife ought to be allowed a say in the question of 
her husband’s unofficial friendships. She might even choose 
them — women are much better judges of one another than 
men.” 

“There are plenty of my former friends about still,” he said 
half defiantly. “I’m bored stiff here, and I only want a change, 
not an earthquake.” 

“Georgie will create the earthquake if she catches you,” Lady 
Mayfield said, speaking in warning tones. “Can’t you com- 
promise? Think it over, Eustace. It’s always best to dodge 
risks. Isn’t there an alternative ?” 

He wandered rather aimlessly round the room, and fidgeted 
with the papers on his writing-table. “The only girl who inter- 
ests me is Averil Markham,” he said reflectively. “I like her, 
and there would be no harm in that. If I can’t get a little 
harmless entertainment out of a friendship, I shall do the other 
thing. I’ve always been used to liberty.” 

Lady Mayfield reflected. She was thinking that of the two, 
were she in Georgie’s shoes, she would certainly accept the 
commonplace alternative. Clint was merely hankering after 
conditions which were only alluring because they were out of 
reach. Let him go back to them for a short experience and it 
would suffice. But how would such an argument affect Georgie ? 
She was strict and, as Lady Mayfield described it, narrow- 
minded. If she were to discover that Clint had taken a plunge 
into the lower spheres, she might make no end of a fuss. You 
couldn’t tell what Georgie’s principles would dictate, and it was 
obviously dangerous to play with them. On the other hand, 
Averil was the least platonic of girls, and she had fallen in love 
with Clint’s Grecian profile. She cared nothing for wives, as a 
class. Wives simply didn’t count with her at all. 

Averil was a free-lance, and having cast her eyes upon 
Eustace, it was unlikely that she would be deterred by any 
trifles. And yet, if you shut your eyes and kept them shut, 
refusing to see anything, the situation was workable; it could 
be camouflaged and no one would be the wiser. Georgie’s own 
innocence closed her in like a wall, and she would be the last to 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


124 

suspect anything. She had suspected nothing when the whole 
thing began under her tilted nose, and Averil was an adept at 
carrying off a situation. Even Eleanor herself had been puzzled, 
and only the merest chance had “put her wise” as to how matters 
were tending. Averil would squeeze the last drop of emotion 
out of the situation, and disappear silently like a snake, leaving 
no trace of her passing. 

In Lady Mayfield’s eyes, it appeared better to take the risk 
of aiding the adventure to which she could be a party. Averil 
would tell her nothing; she never told anyone anything, and 
Clint would keep an honourably closed mouth for some years, 
until, in a fit of confidence, he would at last reveal the story to 
his sister. 

All this was ancient history, for he had done it over and 
over again. Should she accept the “no harm” theory, she could 
engineer an opportunity for them to meet, and when it had all 
burnt out and nothing was left but some stale ashes, Clint would 
return to Georgie and their present bickering mood would end. 
He would be remorseful and penitent, and Georgie would never 
be any the wiser. She looked at her brother, and told herself 
that one must make these elastic allowances for him. He had 
been a kind of pasha, and until he married, no one thought any 
the worse of him for that. To expect him to settle down at 
once with Georgie was asking a great deal, and those who asked 
it were likely to be disappointed by results. Georgie had flirted 
wildly, and Nell thought that she was still capable of flirtation, 
only that the men she now met were not those she liked. Clint’s 
relaxations were certainly earthly and could be termed sordid; 
but who was to judge between them? In neither case was it 
necessary to make a fuss, and though Clint would fuss like 
fury if he caught Georgie flirting, and Georgie would raise 
hell if she found that Eustace had been unfaithful, no sensible 
person would feel that it all mattered very vitally, so long as 
they were both happy together. 

Eleanor’s knowledge of life inclined her to the belief that 
variety was essential to some natures, if not all ; whether it were 
the inspiration of a fresh mind, or the kisses of a passer-by. 
Life is many-sided, and monotony had to be avoided at as cheap 
a cost as possible. Nell was temperamentally inclined to play 
up to Clint. She liked to feel her power over him, and she 
usually agreed to do what her friends wished her to do. She 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


125 

hesitated for a time before she spoke, and then she threw dis- 
cretion away. 

“Shall I try and persuade Gee to go to Ireland alone?” she 
asked. “Don’t go rushing off to London, Eustace, it’s rather a 
rotten way, isn’t it? You wouldn’t really be amused by that 
kind of thing. What you want is breathing space.” 

He looked at her gratefully. “That’s exactly it,” he said; 
“and, as you say, it’s rather a rotten plan, only I’m so fed up 
with things here, and I’m badly in need of something to buck 
me up.” 

“That’s agreed then,” she said lightly. “I’m sure I can work 
it. Georgie will come back as cheery as anything, and you’ll be 
happy again. It only needs a little common sense.” 

“Don’t let her think I want her to go,” he said anxiously. 

“What do you take me for?” she retorted. “Leave it to me.” 

“You’re an awfully good sort, Nell,” he said with conviction. 
They had neither of them referred to Averil and after a little. 
Lady Mayfield left him alone. 

Eustace sighed and stretched himself in his chair. There 
was nothing to do until Comerforth and his wife and one or 
two other guests arrived later in the day, and then Georgie 
would get on her high horse about Comerforth and make a fool 
of herself. He was becoming permanently anxious about her, 
and the effect she. created on strangers. Two of the men who 
were invited had not yet met Clint’s wife. Comerforth, since 
Georgie declared war, had a way of drawing her out and mak- 
ing her say the wrong thing. How very often she did say the 
wrong thing these days, and then her brogue was a little sur- 
prising to fresh acquaintances. You might either admire 
Georgie or laugh at her, and Eustace hated to feel how vul- 
nerable she was, and how her vulnerability affected him. Things 
which Mrs. Clint had said of her came back to his mind, and he 
knew that even Nell, with all her width of view, felt Georgie 
to be at best a rather charming disaster. 

She owed him everything: her improved appearance and her 
added fascination were really his gift. If this were so, surely 
he might require some small return at her hands? Was it ask- 
ing a great deal ? Of course he loved her, and she was his wife, 
yet that was not sufficient reason for her to demand that he 
must change, stock, lock and barrel. She had not changed. 
She still said “reely” and “gracious,” and would ejaculate “My 
God!” on the smallest provocation. She didn’t alter a detail. 


126 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


merely because he wished her to, and it was little short of pre- 
posterous to claim such wide and far-reaching concessions from 
him. 

The day was dark, as the thaw had come, rain was falling out 
of a sullen grey sky, and the room grew full of dim shadows. 
At length Clint dropped into a doze and ceased to worry him- 
self about things which could not be helped. 

Lady Mayfield flitted through the hall, and, hearing Georgie’ s 
voice on an upper landing, went up the wide staircase. She 
reflected that Georgie really had done well for herself. What 
hadn’t the girl got out of her marriage? Status, comfort, money 
to spend, and a most generous husband, who was also young and 
remarkably good looking. He signed cheques with lavishness, 
for Eustace was temperamentally open-handed. But, after all, 
when there is plenty of money the act of signing a cheque is not 
exhausting, in itself. It cost him neither mental nor physical 
toil; but the impression was that, because he did it willingly, 
he was in some way unusually noble. Eleanor believed this, 
and it hardened her heart. Georgie hadn’t as much as a five- 
pound note to her name, and Lady Mayfield inherited some of 
her mother’s attitude towards the poor. If you were poor you 
were jolly lucky to inveigle a man with plenty to pay your 
bills, and keep you clothed and fed; but it put you on a lower 
level if it came to argument, and deprived you of rights which 
you might otherwise claim. Georgie, in fact, owed everything 
to Clint. You couldn’t escape from it, even if you granted that 
he had made the bargain himself. 

She went upwards with a light step, and found Georgie in 
difficulties with the housekeeper, who wished her to lecture the 
under-housemaid. Georgie considered the girl to be in the right, 
and the controversy grew acrimonious, when Nell caught her by 
the waist and whirled her into her room. A bright fire burned 
in the grate and Lady Mayfield’s maid was putting away some 
gorgeously-coloured underclothing in a drawer, but she with- 
drew at once, and closed the door behind her. 

“That Mrs. Maturin is a cat,” Georgie said, sitting down in 
an easy chair. “Horrid old woman. She’s very impertinent, 
too, Nell, and I’m blessed if I’ll take cheek.” 

“I should let her slave-drive,” Lady Mayfield replied indif- 
ferently. “What does it matter?” 

“I won’t see the girl bullied. She has as good a right to live 
as another.” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


127 

‘Ton don’t understand English servants.” Lady Mayfield 
took up a brilliantly coloured garment and regarded it critically. 
“In Ireland it may be different.” 

“Ireland,” Georgie replied in a voice of longing. “Ireland.” 

“Poor old wretch, you’re homesick. Next to being sea-sick, 
it’s a bad complaint. I’ve not suffered from it myself, Gee, only 
I can understand.” 

Georgie looked out through the window at the bare branches 
of some tall trees and sighed. “I wish I could get Eustace to 
come with me. He’s terribly obstinate, Nell; over and over 
I’ve asked him to come, and not a stir out of him so far.” 

“You’d like to see your old pa?” Eleanor sat down on the 
hearthrug. “What a funny little creature you are, Georgie 
Porgie. Fancy caring for one’s father. Mine was a cross old 
man with a fearfully raffish past. I believe he and the cook had 
an interesting relationship, but mother declined to know any- 
thing about it. The cook was too good to lose, and you couldn’t 
fire out father ; we were pleased when he kicked the bucket.” 

Georgie moved uncomfortably. She did not at all like her 
sister-in-law’s openness of comment upon the dead. 

“Well, he was your father,” she said. “But Dada” — her whole 
face lighted up, “Dada’s a lamb, and I’m wild to see him. Oh, 
Nell, wouldn’t you try and coax Eustace for me? He thinks a 
heap of you, and maybe he’d come around.” 

“I don’t see why he should.” Eleanor took one of Georgie’s 
hands and began to play with her fingers. “This little pig went 
to Paris, and this little pig stayed at home. Why the devil. 
Pie, should Eustace drag himself over to Ireland, just to please 
you ? If you were a sensible woman, you’d go alone.” Georgie 
was about to interrupt, and Eleanor put her finger on her lips. 
“You want to see Dada, and Eustace has no use for Dada.” 

“Reely ” Georgie broke in. 

‘Wes, reely” Lady Mayfield continued; “no earthly. Also 
it’s a damp climate and the hotel is vile. You don’t notice any 
of these things, and while you are there you will play around. 
Do be sensible, animal, and if you must go, don’t be so fright- 
fully selfish.” 

“Selfish? Is it me selfish?” Georgie’s eyes grew round. 

“Yes, frightfully selfish. You won’t make that little sacrifice 
for a man who does nothing at all from week to week but kiss 
you and sign cheques. Listen, Gee, and be advised. Go over 


128 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


to Ireland, and to make it easy for you, I’ll stay here. Now, 
that’s a bargain.” 

Georgie reflected for a moment. “But husband and wife 
oughtn’t be parted,” she said obstinately. “That’s what I think.’-* 

“Then you think wrong. They get on far better if they are.” 

“I’d dearly love to go,” Georgie remarked after a pause. “And 
if you were here I’d feel that Eustace was cared. You’re sure 
that it doesn’t seem ugly if I leave him for a week ?” she sprang 
to her feet and whirled round, her arms outstretched. “Oh, to 
be back again, even for a week, Nell.” 

“Then be sensible, and tell thingumy-jig to pack.” 

“If Eustace’d let me.” 

Lady Mayfield laughed. “Here, Pie, I’ll take it upon myself 
to break it to him, and I’ll sound the gong in the hall if he 
agrees. You wait.” 

“Nell, you are a darling,” Georgie followed her to the door, 
“and I promise I’ll not stay a day over the week. Tell him that, 
and I’ll write every evening, and it won’t be long. Tell him 
that. And I’ll . . .” but Lady Mayfield had gone and was al- 
ready out of earshot. 

She opened the door of Clint’s sanctum, and he awoke with 
a start. 

“I’ve fixed it,” she said. “You had better be rather cross 
about it, I think, and make a fuss.” 

“When will she go ?” 

“This evening. For a week. How’ll that do!” 

“You are a brick,” he said, standing up and smoothing his 
hair. “I shall have time to go out and send a telegram, what ?” 

“Better see her first. She expects a row. Never disappoint 
people unless you must,” and Nell went into the hall and 
sounded a deep note on the gong, while Eustace walked up the 
staircase and knocked on Georgie’s door. 

“So you are going?” he said, looking at her unsmilingly. 

“Not if you’d rather me stay,” she came to him and put her 
hand on his arm. “I’d never do a thing to put you out, Eustace, 
you know that, don’t you ?” 

“Oh, it’s all right. I’m sure that you’ll not be happy until 
you’ve seen your father. Tell him that I couldn’t come. You 
can explain it; I don’t want his feelings hurt.” 

She flung her arms around him and pressed her face to his. 
“You’re so good,” she said; “far too good to me, Eustace, and 
I’ve been selfish, Nell made me see that. I’ll only be away the 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 129 

week, and I’ll write each day,” she looked at him with wistful 
eyes. 

Eustace kissed her with affection. “You’re the best and dear- 
est little wife on earth; tell Mr. Desmond that from me,” he 
said. “And, after all, a week isn’t long.” 

“Not so long, she agreed. “Constance won’t be mad because 
I’ve cleared off, will she?” 

“Nell will make that square.” 

“Comerforth won’t be weeping, anyhow,” she added dryly, 
“and th’ other fellows don’t know what they’ve missed; will 
they now?” 

“Not they,” he agreed, with a sense of relief; “and now, 
Georgie, I’d better send a wire, hadn’t I?” 

“Yes, darling — oh, Eustace, it’s bad to be leaving you.” 

He kissed her again and went away from her, and Georgie 
once more returned to her packing. Ardclare was the home 
of her fondest dreams. Marriage was good, but not quite the 
same fresh, free thing which she had known when Eustace and 
she used to walk among the fallen leaves along the dear familiar 
roads. She wanted to walk there again and taste the food of 
memory. Then there was Dada, and now she could stay at the 
Rectory and sleep in her old room again. Nothing need be 
altered since Clint was not coming, and it certainly simplified 
everything, though she felt that Miss White would not approve. 

Already, in spirit, she Was with her own once more, and she 
hailed them with all a wanderer’s joy of greeting. It would be 
such fun, and there had been very little of what Georgie termed 
“fun” of late. In fact, if you put Eustace out of the reckoning 
the only real fun she had known was her chance meeting with 
Lousada. 

Again her thoughts turned to Ardclare, and she saw in her 
imagination the wind-swept road, coming down from the rail- 
way station, the brooding mountains, and the colour and light 
in the sky ; English skies held no such colours for her. She re- 
called the Rectory, the trees along the strip of garden, and lost 
voices spoke in her ears. Soon she would really be there again, 
and her gratitude towards Clint, and her shamefaced sense of 
having behaved selfishly, balanced one against the other in a full 
heart. 

Clint got down to the post office and despatched his two tele- 
grams, one of which contained an urgent invitation. 


CHAPTER XIII 


Georgie was conscious of a queer sense of arrested activity 
as the train took her south. Her departure from The Glean- 
ings had been touched with unreality, and the stormy crossing 
was like a bad dream in which she heard familiar accents ad- 
dress her once more in a well-known tongue. The stewardess 
recognised her and took her under her wing, but even so, 
Georgie was aware that only part of her travelled in the hot, 
stuffy cabin, and listened to the hissing sweep of passing waters. 
She was in truth one with Clint, and the separation cost her a 
pang. There was a clash going on in her heart, of conflicting 
emotions, and it destroyed some of her wild anticipation of 
pleasure. Distance took on a sinister aspect, the week spread 
out before her unduly long in prospective, and yet she was re- 
lieved. If you have been tied to a post, however beautiful the 
post may be, and are suddenly released, your hands do not at 
once recover their powers, and Georgie was numbed for the 
moment. She thought of Eustace and his Grecian profile, how 
much he would miss her when the dark hours came, and she 
could not forsake him in her mind, just because she had stepped 
into the express train and was on her way to Ireland. We all of 
us suffer more or less from being in two places at once, and 
Georgie was no exception to the rule. 

She had torn up no roots, nor was she emigrating to a new 
world, but she was a generous young human being, and she felt 
that if she let herself enjoy the journey, she would be in some 
way unfaithful to Clint. 

She expected a great deal from her visit, more than it could 
give her, because she was ardent and alive, and gradually, as the 
well-known outlines of hill and field drew around her, she came 
close to weeping over the joys of return. It was grand to be 
travelling first-class, and to be recognised by the guard on the 
train, who was pleased to see her, and everything looked the 
same, even the sunset and the shape of the clouds to the west. 
The great sunlit gap in the clouds reminded her of angels, and 
a sweep of religious fervour shook her. She was shy on the 

130 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


i3i 

subject of religion; it was one of the things which no one spoke 
about, but she knew that it mattered to her and was close to her 
heart. 

The long rays from the west greeted her like a heavenly bene- 
diction as she got into the little branch line train which took 
her to Ardclare. She was recognised by a dozen county people, 
and once more she tasted the exquisite delight of being a person- 
age, only a little less important now than Lady Dun herself. 

Long before she could see the outlines of the station house at 
Ardclare, Georgie was half-way out of the window, straining 
her eyes through the dusk. There were the ghostly-looking 
gates that cut across the Enniscara Road, the low range of 
brown hills a mile or so from the village, where the Sunday 
pack hunted, and last of all the small station buildings and plat- 
form with a glimmer of white rails. Her heart was in her 
throat, she thought, so wildly was it beating, and under a dim 
oil-lamp she discerned the figures of Mr. Desmond, Miss White 
and Milson Rogers, with Patsey at a little distance behind them. 
The voices she knew came to greet her, and in an ecstasy of 
joy she flung her arms around them all in turn, even Milson, 
who was a little stiff and awkward, though he gripped her hands 
hard between his own. 

“Oh, glory! But it’s fine to see you,” she said in a husky 
voice of intense happiness, and all the way down the road she 
exchanged greetings with old friends, who ejaculated in great 
astonishment that Miss Georgie was back, and they were proud 
to see her again. 

“My dear child,” Dada repeated, “it is very nice to see you,” 
and Miss White was moved almost to tears. 

“Didn’t you guess the bad halfpenny would come back ?” she 
said, squeezing her father’s arm affectionately. “It’s only for a 
week, Dada, but we’ll make the most of it for ourselves. And 
how’s Garry, Milson ? If he isn’t as fat as a flea I’ll have some- 
thing to say about it.” 

“He’s ready to carry you at the meet on Tuesday,” he said 
in high, cheerful accents. “Is it my saddle you’ll want, 
Georgie, or will th’ old side-saddle be good enough ?” 

“I’ve never done that,” Georgie replied. “Is it to make a 
show of me that way, Milson ? I’m shocked.” 

She ran down to the kitchen and kissed Kate Love on her 
wrinkled cheeks, and was told that she had got “very salla 
around the nose, and wasn’t looking a bit nice,” by the faithful 


132 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


retainer, all of which Georgie discounted. She was nome; it 
was far more home to her than The Gleanings had ever been 
or could be, and the first evening was a rapturous one. When 
Milson and Miss White went away, Georgie sat by the fire with 
Dada and told him about England. It was like describing a 
foreign country, and he seemed to feel that England was a 
wonderful place, where every one had a motor, and there was 
no political strife. As he grew older — and he had aged con- 
siderably in the year of her absence — he became more and more 
gloomy about the state of his own country, and Georgie hesi- 
tated once or twice, wondering whether her account of England 
was as satisfactory as she ought to have made it. 

“I like th’ English well enough,” she said, “but they’re differ- 
ent to us, Dada, and though I s’pose they’re awfully well edu- 
cated, I don’t know, somehow, that they are reely any better 
than we are.” 

Mr. Desmond seemed to feel that there was something wrong 
about her attitude, and as he expected to be raided any night 
on account of an old shot-gun which hung in the hall, but which 
he would not take down and send to the police barracks, he told 
her that she knew nothing about Ireland, or what a terrible 
place it had become. He produced a leaflet asking him to sub- 
scribe to a loan, in the name of the Irish Republic, and it an- 
noyed him so acutely that Georgie steered the conversation into 
more peaceful waters. 

“We may be in for a revolution over there any day,” she said, 
hoping to cheer him, “and Eustace doesn’t like it. He says th’ 
labouring classes are getting very saucy.” 

“Ah? Indeed? I’m sorry to hear it,” Mr. Desmond replied. 
“People should all do their duty in that state of life to which 
it has pleased God to call them.” 

“So they should,” she agreed. “D’you know, Dada, we have 
a cross on th’ altar in the church at High Cherwell. What 
would you say to that, now? And vestments! Vestments, 
actually. I thought I was at Mass the first time I went, and 
nearly cleared meself out. They say Fawther Hawtry hears con- 
fessions, and fancy his calling himself ‘Fawther.’ Isn’t that 
queer ? And he a Protestant.” 

“I hope you go regularly to church,” Mr. Desmond said, 
taking off his pince-nez and laying the offending leaflet on a 
table at his elbow. “You and your husband.” 

“Surely,” Georgie replied, answering for herself; “but I 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


133 


don’t reely like th’ incense, and the choir isn’t no great shakes. 
Will I play th’ organ on Sunday, Dada darling, or would Mrs. 
Erancis want to tear me if I did?” 

“You shall play,” he said, looking pleased, and then he began 
to talk of Finney and his fall from grace. 

But if Georgie was received with something approaching 
reverence by a section of the former public, she was made to feel 
that she was still only Georgie Desmond by others. The meet 
at Ballycard Cross brought her into conflict with the Dun- 
carrigs, and Veronica gave her a frigid bow of recognition, 
while Lady Duncarrig seemed to seek once more for something 
just above her head. She enjoyed the run, and rode with all 
her old skill and dash, and the deepening shadows brought her 
return, accompanied by Milson Rogers, who had kept with her 
more or less throughout the day. 

“Lady Dun’s as out with me as ever,” Georgie said with a 
good-tempered little laugh. “Isn’t it the queer thing, Milson, 
that if you’re a dog with a bad name, people’ll go on trying to 
hang you until doomsday? What did I ever do to Lady Dun 
to make her so cross ?” 

“Are they nice to you over there?” Rogers nodded vaguely 
in a northerly direction. 

“Yes, indeed. Awfully nice.” She paused and thought of 
The Gleanings and Eustace. “Lady Mayfield, Eustace’s sister, 
is a caution, Milson. The things she says! Glory! If I were 
to say them there’d be a row, only she can, you understand. Got 
the style, I s’pose. Mrs. Clint is a respectable old lady, and I’m 
a bit afraid of her, but I don’t think she means badly. We just 
doesn’t suit.” She gave a quick sigh. “It makes a heap of dif- 
ference if you’ve money. Th’ English think a lot of that.” 

“Aye, so,” Rogers replied. “I don’t think much of th’ Eng- 
lish Government myself, Georgie, and I say this though I was 
never a pro-German.” 

“ ’Twill be all the same in a hundred years,” Georgie replied 
consolingly. She was not troubled by these matters. 

Ardclare discussed her freely. Her clothes were a subject of 
animated controversy, and Georgie was said to have “gone off.” 
Mrs. Dykes and Mrs. Sharkey decided that it was early days for 
Georgie to be gallivanting off without her husband, and that it 
looked bad. They watched Lady Duncarrig’s unaltered attitude 
of disapproval, and agreed that she must know facts unknown 
to themselves, otherwise Georgie would have at least been asked 


134 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


to dine at Ardclare, and Miss White was deeply distressed by 
the omission. Georgie had come back without Clint, and she 
was already flirting with Milson whom she might well have left 
alone, as she was provided with a husband, and Milson was a 
marriageable young man. Trust Georgie to grab any one in 
trousers at the shortest notice. In fact, more hard things were 
said of Georgie upon her return than had been said of her 
before, and though nearly every one called, just to take a look 
at her, the compliment was not paid in an altogether friendly 
spirit. 

Georgie saw things from another angle. She had changed, 
and was illogical enough to think that Ardclare had altered. 
Though she loved every road and field in the place, she felt 
that it had shrunk and was less impressive than she expected. 
Cork and the clothes made there by Madame Murphy were no 
longer glittering with incredible beauties, and Georgie com- 
plained that the trains were slow and that you could not really 
shop in Patrick Street, which did more to create animosity than 
anything else she said. 

“Georgie’s getting too big for her breeches,” Mrs. Dykes 
remarked with a sardonic laugh. “Cork isn’t good enough for 
her any longer, and don’t I well remember when all the ball 
dresses she ever had came out of Nannie Heffernan’s little room 
over the post office. Airs and graces are the order of the day, 
my dear.” 

Georgie’s own little bedroom appeared small and ill-furnished, 
and Dada dwelt upon his troubles with great concentration, so 
that she was. forced to sit and offer remarks of sympathy, though 
her heart was no longer in tune. 

She was happy, and in her daily letter to Clint she told him 
so, but she missed him desperately, and when she lay in her 
small bed at night she sent her longing to him across the dark- 
ness. He wrote her one letter, telling her that Comerforth and 
his wife were at The Gleanings, and the two men he had ex- 
pected. They were hunting again, and the* frost had broken. 
It was a short letter, and after that he sent her a telegram every 
day instead of writing, and as the week went on he added to his 
hope that she was well, that she must not hurry back if she 
wanted longer leave from home. 

“Isn’t it like the kind heart of him?” she said to Dada. 
“Always thinking of me, and he’s mad for me to be back 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


135 

“You’ve been here for a nice visit,” Mr. Desmond replied, 
looking down. “Perhaps you should return to Eustace.” 

Georgie looked at him in momentary dismay. Did Dada 
really not want to keep her longer? Such a thought was in- 
credible. She had brought noise and movement back to the 
Rectory, and filled the house with people once more. Dada had 
grown used to quiet. She put the thought from her and smiled 
at him. “I’ll take another two days,” she said. “And I have a 
grand idea, Dada; I’ll go back a day sooner than I’m expected, 
just for the fun of seeing how pleased Eustace’ll be over it.” 

It was wonderful to sit at the wheezy old organ again and 
sing “Shall we gather at the river ?” at the top of her voice, the 
whole congregation following her like a straggling pack of 
hounds, and to hear one of Dada’s sermons, which, directly he 
gave out the text, she welcomed as an old and tried friend. She 
sat on a chair in a corner facing the church during the sermon, 
and could see every one she knew. Duncarrig trying to keep 
awake. Lady Dun looking like royalty and desperately bored; 
Milson with his eyes furtively straying to Georgie’s own corner, 
and all the others whom she knew so well. Yet she could not 
go back to it again. With her hands clasped in her muff, she sat 
there, and knew that there is no such thing in life as return. 
We cannot return, for we ourselves are changed. Love them 
all as she did; feel as she did that there was passion akin to 
pain in looking back from where she stood, she admitted that 
her real place was lost. 

She spent the afternoon with Miss White, who talked of 
Kinney’s engagement, and Lady Duncarrig, until Georgie’s 
mind was rocked like an infant in a cradle, and she wondered 
whether the Sundays had formerly been so long as all that, and 
why it was that things which mattered in Ireland did not seem 
to be of much importance elsewhere. To enliven Miss White, 
she described Lady Mayfield’s conversation, and had the satisfac- 
tion of shocking her good friend. 

“But, Georgie, a lady of title could not speak like that.” 

“Indeed she does,” Georgie replied, “and I’ve spared you the 
best of it. Nell hates her mother, and says so.” 

Miss White shook her head. These modern ways were be- 
yond her. 

“I’m so glad she accepts you properly,” she said in her dig- 
nified way. “Perhaps she was not well brought up. People of 
good family often run wild.” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


136 

“I don’t know about her bringing up,” Georgie reflected. 
“Still, I’m very fond of her. I’m sure there’s no harm in her, 
and that the most of it is talk.” 

“I hope you won’t get into a fast way of talking. Your father 
would be so distressed,” Miss White said earnestly. 

“No fear at all,” Georgie replied unhesitatingly. “Only over 
in England you have to be fearfully careful. They don’t under- 
stand fun, and if you want a bit of fun they think you’re fast.” 

“Captain Clint would be very particular, I am sure.” 

“Eustace? He’s as jealous I” Georgie giggled. “You should 
see the look he gives me if he thinks I’m getting on too well- 
with one of his friends.” 

At last it all came to an end, and Georgie sat with Mr. Des- 
mond through the final evening of her visit. She was elated by 
the harmless little joke she intended to play on Clint, and was 
happier than she had been since the evening of her return. Eor 
there was something of the puppy in Georgie, and, like an eager 
puppy, she barked and jumped and wagged ecstatically at the 
prospect of going out, and repeated all the same appropriate 
gestures on the sign of turning home again. She could enjoy 
anything now, because she was so soon to feel Clint’s arms 
around her, and to know from him that he had missed her, even 
though he did not write. 

His telegrams made up for any lack of letters, for it still 
seemed such a lovely and expensive way of expressing your 
interest in the absent. England had become more attractive 
again, and The Gleanings was wonderfully comfortable if you 
compared it to the Rectory. Local to the core of her, in a 
sense, Georgie was still aware that in Ardclare there was a 
shade too much of parish politics and an unnecessary amount 
of personal acrimony. People suspected one another, and they 
fought about trifles. Only a day before Mr. Madden had walked 
out of the choir because Mrs. Dykes asked him to sing up to 
time, and now the story of the battle was going the rounds, 
and Mr. Madden was said to be “kicking the stars” in his 
wrath. Why was it these things mattered? Georgie was ex- 
pected to cut poor Finney, and had fallen under her father’s 
displeasure because she had crossed the road to speak to the 
young man. 

“I declare, Mrs. Clint, I’m so used to cuts that I’m surprised 
to have a civil word,” he said. “And aren’t we all Christians, 
Mrs. Clint, and I’m not turning heathen, am I?” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


137 


It was exhausting and puzzling to Georgie, and she felt that 
there was something to be said for the pagan English. They 
didn’t care; so you got away from narrow judgment. She was 
regretful to leave Ardclare, and yet she already pictured the 
return. None of the servants would kiss her, or tell her that* 
she was looking a show in them new clothes, or comment upon 
her personal appearance. The old woman who kept the gate 
lodge would not embarrass her by asking intimate questions as 
to the state of her health. Nell would raise her voice to a hard 
scream and call her “Woman” or “Eemale,” and make a few 
racy remarks about Clint; but Georgie looked forward to seeing 
her again. It would be like emerging from a rainbow fog 
through which queer little draughts found their way into a 
bright, sharp atmosphere, devoid of illusion. 

“It’s been lovely being home again, Dada darling,” she said, 
leaning her head against his thin, black knees. “And next time 
I come I’ll bring Eustace.” 

“Ah, yes,” Mr. Desmond replied dreamily, “and stay at the 
hotel in Cork.” 

“That’s an idea,” she said, watching the sparks fly up the 
chimney. She felt that the “Imperial” was a splendid estab- 
lishment, and the suggestion showed a good deal of cleverness 
on the part of Dada. 

“I wonder you were not invited to Ardclare,” he remarked 
after a perceptible pause. 

“I was only in it a week, and perhaps they were full up.” 
Georgie unconsciously adopted her old habit of sheltering Mr. 
Desmond from the blasts of adversity. “Anyhow, I wasn’t 
favourite there at any time.” 

“You have married well,” Mr. Desmond said argumenta- 
tively, “you have a fine place in England, and in every way 
you are their equal. What do they mean by it?” 

“I expect it’s Miss Stuart. She wanted Eustace, and I got 
him. She’s engaged now, but that hasn’t made her like me 
any the better. Never mind them, Dada; they’re a silly old lot. 
Let them alone.” 

“Mrs. Dykes mentioned it,” he said, still ruffled and angry. 

“She would.” Georgie shrugged her shoulders. “It’s the 
very thing I’d expect out of her. If there’s a hole in the toe 
of your stocking she’ll find it out.” 

And the rest of the evening slipped by as they laboured the 
point. Lady Duncarrig had made a spiritual entry into the 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


138 

small drawing-room, and forced herself into the discussion. 
What they might otherwise have talked of it is hard to say. 
Mr. Desmond had an impenetrable reserve towards every one, 
and Georgie was no exception. Now and then his reputation 
for “not noticing” trembled almost to its fall, but by some queer 
sleight of hand he invariably saved it at the last minute. To 
Georgie he was intensely pathetic in his lonely dignity, like a 
god who has been forgotten of his worshippers, and she grew 
wild to think that some of the congregation dared to criticise 
him. She adored him, and felt him to be the best and most 
saintly of men, and she also believed that he was worked to 
death, because he frequently told her so, and said he expected 
“to drop in the harness.” 

He spoke in a tired voice, and was more easily worked up 
into bursts of temper against the world in general, and some 
of his congregation in particular, than of old, and Georgie felt 
that all this arose from the fact that she was not present to 
“care him.” Mrs. Dykes was like a cat-fish, and as she played 
the organ she had opportunities to go frequently in pursuit of 
Dada, and say unkind things to him. He was very angry indeed 
about Joe Madden leaving the choir, and there was talk of a 
public apology, though who intended to apologise was not at 
all clear. 

“I suppose in England there is none of this trouble,” he 
said, when they had completed the circle once again. 

“Not that sort of trouble,” Georgie replied with the air of a 
seasoned explorer, “but other sorts, Dada. You’d be wild if 
you knew how lax they are about evening church.” 

“Dear me. The world is growing very bad, very bad,” Mr. 
Desmond said, and, taking out his prayer-book, he began to 
read evening prayers. 

Georgie knelt with her toes against the fender, just as she 
had done in former years, and the cushions of the chair smelt 
doggy, because Atalanta the terrier had used it as a bed. She 
knew the number of buttons missing in the upholstery, for she 
used to count them of old. Once again her eyes dwelt fondly 
upon the shabby surroundings, and a pang caught her heart, 
because she was to leave it in the morning and go back to 
pleasures and palaces. 

“From anger, hatred and malice and all uncharitableness,” 
Mr. Desmond read with a touch of temper in his voice, as though 
he had an individual case in mind. 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


139 


“That’s Mrs. Dykes,” Georgie said to herself, and mur- 
mured, “Good Lord, deliver us.” 

“From all false doctrine, heresy and schism.” 

“One for poor Finney,” Georgie thought regretfully. What 
a difficult world people made it all for one another. 

She rose from her knees, and Mr. Desmond began to put 
out the lights, and Georgie turned back the hearthrug. At 
that moment she loved her home desperately, and had no words 
in which to express her feelings when she ’kissed Dada above 
his whiskers and said good night. 

They saw her off. Miss White, Milson and Dada, and she 
again leaned out of the carriage window and waved until the 
station platform was utterly out of sight. There was a clear 
sky overhead, and the country was blazing with yellow gorse in 
wild, exuberant flower, so that it looked as though the hedges 
and banks were outlined in gold. Great shadows floated across 
the mountains, and Georgie thrilled with pride in the sight 
of it all. 

A telegram arrived for Mrs. Clint after she had. left, and 
Dada opened it nervously, for he had never become used to 
telegrams, and connected them with sudden death. But it was 
only to tell Georgie to remain at Ardclare another week, and 
Clint would arrange to come over and bring her back himself. 
Mr. Desmond read it with a sigh of relief, and put it into the 
waste-paper basket. 


CHAPTER XIV 


Lady Mayfield was sitting in a chair in front of the fire in the 
drawing-room of The Gleanings, staring at a Dresden china 
shepherdess, who smiled coyly at her from the mantelpiece. Her 
bright cheeks were more than usually red, and her mouth moved 
a little because she could not keep it still; she was smiling a 
forced smile, and going over the details of her meeting with 
Georgie, hoping that she had given nothing away by her 
manner. 

Georgie’s unexpected return had made her extremely uneasy 
in mind, and she covered her dismay with talk. In fact, she 
knew that she had overdone the vehemence of her welcome, and 
fallen into Clint’s habit of explaining everything far too care- 
fully. Averil’s presence in the house, and the fact that she 
and Eustace were out together, should only have been touched 
upon, and instead, with a violently thumping heart, Eleanor 
had dwelt heavily on the very point she should have avoided. 

After the first rush of enthusiasm Georgie had gone to her 
room. She was disappointed because Clint was absent, and 
ruffled when she heard that Averil was staying in the house. 
She asked when she had come, and Nell bungled over the 
date, while Georgie seemed irritated because no one had told 
her. There was a natural antipathy in her feelings towards 
Averil, and the idea of her being at The Gleanings robbed her 
glad return of half its joy. 

During Georgie’s absence events had been by no means sta- 
tionary, and Eleanor herself had dispatched the telegram, say- 
ing that Eustace would go to Ireland and bring her home, in 
the hope that it would give things time to settle. She knew 
from her own experience that it is nearly impossible to keep 
facts from pervading the atmosphere. Hidden motives be- 
trayed themselves and secrets whispered their story into the 
silent air; unless they were careful, Georgie would guess. 

Lady Mayfield had aided and abetted her brother in his sud- 
den infatuation for Averil, partly because she thought it would 
soon fizzle out and the less it was repressed the sooner it would 

140 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


141 

all be over, and partly because she bad a natural love of doing 
what she had better have left alone. In all the varied condi- 
tions of life Nell played false, and she was prepared to treat 
a friend she had finished with or a lover she had tired of in ex- 
actly the same way. 

She knew that Clint was stampeding the situation, though 
he only wanted Averil for the moment. Behind that, he 
seemed to even love Georgie quite deeply, and would return to 
her in due time. Neither he nor his sister ever really knew 
what they wanted, but were swept hither and thither by im- 
pulse, and the situation was like an attack of measles which 
would pass, leaving the subject normal again. They were both 
emotional and oversexed, but Georgie could not be expected to 
understand this. 

Now Georgie with her ridiculous habit of taking everything 
for granted, had upset all their plans by coming home, and 
neither Eustace nor Averil were in the least prepared for her 
return. 

Lady Mayfield lacked the asset of moral courage, nor had 
she immoral courage when it came to the point; her heart felt 
several sizes too large, and she smiled the same wooden smile 
and rehearsed the meeting once more. She was sure that she 
had screamed too much. Her voice always ran up the scale 
when she became excited. She sat there, pretty, elegant and 
extremely unhappy, wishing that Georgie’ s boat had foundered 
on the journey and that she had been drowned. 

It is uncomfortable to feel like a conspirator who has left 
some damning clue lying about, and Eleanor wondered if Clint 
had been careful. Georgie was splendidly innocent, and an 
innocent person is always easy to dupe, but then, again, there 
was the fact that if her suspicions were awakened she would 
bristle all over with principles. A hot rush of alarm swept 
over her, and she began to feel that it had all been risky and 
stupid. One of the servants might drop a hint ; she never could 
tell, for the housemaid seemed to like Georgie, who had a way of 
getting upon quite friendly terms with these people. Another 
black mark against Georgie’s name, but one which underlined 
the further possibility of danger. 

From her own point of view, Lady Mayfield regarded any 
act as harmless, provided no one was worried by it. Averil 
and Clint understood the rules of the game, which included no 
“for evers” or “world without end”; they were merly indulg- 


142 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


ing in a rather compromising affair which meant nothing, if 
only you understood. So long as Georgie did not guess . . . 
she rubbed her hands together for they were ice-cold, and wished 
that Clint would come back. It was wretched to be the only 
person in the house to face Georgie if she came down in a raging 
temper. She had tried to review the situation from the point 
of view of one whose conscience is clear, but the attempt was 
not very successful. 

Georgie was taking an interminable time to change and 
come downstairs. What was she doing up there? The gong 
had sounded twenty minutes ago. Where was the housemaid? 
Lady Mayfield’s distrust of the girl intensified. 

The clock ticked on steadily, and the flower-scented room 
looked gay and comfortable in the mingled light of dancing 
flames and the cold brightness of the day beyond the windows, 
and at last Nell walked with assumed nonchalance to the draw- 
ing-room door and told the parlour-maid who was crossing the 
hall to remind Mrs. Clint of the time. 

Once again she returned to the fire and bent towards it, 
warming her hands. If only Clint and A y eril would return 
and create a diversion. After all, if there were trouble it was 
of their making, and they ought to be there to stand the racket. 
She listened with strained ears for the return of the parlour- 
maid, who came after a long pause and told Lady Mayfield that 
Mrs. Clint would be down presently. 

“She isn’t ill, is she, Redway ?” Eleanor asked. 

“No, my lady, I don’t think so. The door was locked.” 

“Was Ada there?” 

“Ada was unpacking, I think. Madam rang for her some 
time ago.” 

Lady Mayfield turned once more to the fire, and began to 
review past occasions when she had encountered difficult situ- 
ations quite successfully. She had been surprised and even 
pleased by her own lack of conscience, and admired it in her- 
self. This, after all, was Clint’s affair, and if Georgie had 
listened to servants’ gossip she stood utterly condemned by 
that alone. An hour had passed since the gong had sounded, 
and at last she heard footsteps crossing the hall and coming 
towards the door. She fought down the uneasiness of her mind 
and began to talk before Georgie came across the threshold of 
the room. 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


143 

“Georgie Porgie, you must be as beautiful as the Queen of 
Sheba by this time. Aren’t you famished?” 

Georgie made no reply; she stood in the door for a moment, 
and then came in, closing it behind her. Her face was very 
white and she stared in front of her vacantly, in the attitude 
of one who finds herself in a strange land. She looked sullen, 
Lady Mayfield thought, and inwardly she prepared herself for 
war. There was no doubt about it, however she had come by 
her information, Georgie knew. 

“What’s the matter?” Eleanor asked sharply, and Georgie 
looked at her as though she heard her speaking through a 
cloud. 

“I s’pose you know,” she said dully. 

“Know? Know what?” Lady Mayfield got up and stood 
before her sister-in-law. She felt again that Georgie was 
only a penniless nobody, which certainly was a disqualification 
that nothing would ever redeem, but she tried to appear good- 
humoured and half careless. 

“About the two of them,” Georgie replied. “I know what 
Eustace has done.” 

“What are you talking of? I simply don’t understand you.” 

“I’ve found out.” There was an angry intentness in Georgie’s 
voice. 

“But what? For goodness’ sake, Pie, don’t be melodramatic; 
it’s so stupid, and besides, it’s always bad form.” 

Georgie shrugged her shoulders. “I tell you I know. Him 
and Miss Markham.” 

Lady Mayfield threw out her hands with a quick gesture. 

“Oh, that? Well, if that’s all ” but her cheerful tones 

died out as she met Georgie’s look, and again she became angry. 
“The servants have been talking, I suppose? Reely, Gee, you 
must learn that one doesn’t discuss one’s people with the house- 
maid; if Eustace knew it he would be savage, and I certainly 
should not blame him.” 

“I found out for myself,” Georgie said, looking away through 
the window to where the cold sunlight touched the branches of 
wind-swayed trees. “They didn’t mean me to know, of course, 
but that’s no use now.” 

Lady Mayfield changed her tactics, and she put her arm round 
Georgie’s shoulder. “Don’t jump to conclusions,” she said. 
“Averil is only a girl, and it’s rather a serious charge to make 
against her. Personally, I don’t believe a word of it, Georgie. 


144 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


Anyhow, you must tackle Eustace. If you have any real proof, 
you should tell him what it is.” 

“I think you’ve been helping them,” Georgie said in the same 
dull voice. “They’re off together, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, why not? Eustace took Averil out in the car.” 

“We’d best have lunch,” Georgie remarked, with a sudden 
return to the demands of life. “I’m sorry I was late, but I 
had to think for a time.” 

She wrapped herself about in a cloak of reserve, and they 
went into the dining-room together. All she could do was to 
keep her features composed and drive off the sick longing to 
burst into helpless tears. 

It seemed years since she had arrived at The Gleanings, and 
her parched eyelids burnt like fire. If only one could lie down 
and go to sleep and then wake up and say it was a dream; 
but it was no dream, and there was worse, infinitely worse, 
to come. 

The meal went through in silence, /except for an animated con- 
versation which Lady Mayfield held with her dog ; she addressed 
him enthusiastically and fed him from her own plate. Once 
or twice she spoke to Georgie about a natural reaction after a 
bad crossing, and said she should have stayed in bed, and on 
the whole really did her best to keep up appearances before 
the servants. They were not deceived, nor did Lady Mayfield 
expect them to be, but she had upheld the conventions. What 
she really feared was the return of her brother. Eustace would 
be unprepared for either Georgie or Georgie’s unfortunate dis- 
covery, and also he was not in the least likely to be in a mood 
to propitiate her. If she made a fuss when they arrived, the 
situation would be in the cart. Then it was no use telling 
Georgie that Eustace always had and always would get these 
attacks, or that she herself had been one of them, and that they 
passed. If she was sensible she would ignore the whole thing, 
and wait until later to make Eustace suffer for his sins. 

“Georgie Porgie,” she said as they went back to the drawing- 
room, “can’t you be forgiving? I’m sure Eustace hasn’t gone 
very far, even if he was rather foolish. But you must take us 
as we are, and we aren’t Puritans. Did you never do anything 
you were sorry for afterwards ?” 

Georgie slid away from Eleanor’s arm. “Yes, but nothing 
reely bad. There’s some things it’s a shame to do.” 

“Couldn’t you use tact ?” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


145 


“I know what I’m going to do.” 

“Don’t be foolish,” Eleanor spoke earnestly; ‘‘’they may be 
back any minute, and I beg of you to let nothing out while 
Averil is in the room. You don’t know her as I do, and if 
I tried to tell you you wouldn’t understand.” 

Georgie looked at her again and clasped her hands with a 
desperate movement. She took no heed of what Eleanor had to 
say, because her heart was murdered and dying within her, 
and she still had to fight hard to keep away tears. She had 
stumbled full upon realisation, and it overwhelmed her like a 
surging sea; her eyes had been blinded by the bitterest tears 
she had ever known; loss and disillusionment grasped her life 
and tore it into shreds, so that Nell’s talk was unmeaning and 
even impertinent, for the sacredness of sorrow was unknown 
to Lady Mayfield. Georgie could not heed her warnings be- 
cause she was preoccupied with her dreadful knowledge. The 
pain of discovery was physical as well as mental, and Georgie’s 
head ached and ached and she knew that she felt sick to death. 
There was a curious quality of remoteness in everything; Lady 
Mayfield, who kept on talking, seemed incredibly distant, at 
the far side of the hearthrug, and Georgie was alarmed at her 
own isolation. She felt that the pictures and the photographs 
and all the furniture had a malicious look, and that the whole 
house cried out to her that she was a fool and had been be- 
trayed; but betrayal was merely a commonplace affair of ordi- 
nary social intercourse, and the longing grew upon her to run 
out of the door into the world — anywhere, so that she never 
come back again. But before she could do this she must see 
Eustace. 

How Nell talked! Was there not any end to what she had 
to say, and how her voice pierced into the pain of an aching 
head. She was advising, consoling and warning Georgie; drag- 
ging out world-stained episodes from her own past, and group- 
ing dozens of people upon her side, all of them smirched and 
tarnished, but none of them minded about it; and still the 
monologue went on, and Georgie was only aware that her 
former centre of gravity had been destroyed, and that she was 
dizzy and could not see. 

At last the break came, and the sound of voices outside the 
long window informed both women that Eustace and Averil 
had returned. 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


146 

“Remember all I have said.” Lady Mayfield leaned over 
Georgie and spoke with frantic emphasis, as the handle of 
the door turned and a gush of fresh wind blew in. 

Georgie stood up, ana the voices outside still spoke. Eustace 
was laughing, and he had his hands on Averil’s shoulders as 
he pushed her into the room before him. She was wearing 
her leather coat and a close little hat, and her face was flushed 
by the weather. She seemed very happy, and flashed a look at 
him as he stared, his own eagerness dropping from him in a 
moment. 

“Georgie !” he said, coming forward to where she stood. “By 
Jove, this is a surprise!” 

“Took a bit of a rise out of you?” she asked slowly, her 
eyes travelling to where Averil stood unconcernedly. 

There was a moment’s silence, and Eustace looked at Lady 
Mayfield, who made telegraphic signs with her eyebrows. 

“Averil is here,” he said, and he pushed the remark at 
Georgie, touching her with his hands. She could see that he 
was trying to think of something natural to say, and he was 
angry. She knew him so well, she knew when he raged in- 
wardly at her gaucherie , and blamed her for making mistakes. 

“I see that,” she said, rousing herself. 

“Then why don’t you — ? Why, what’s wrong, old girl?” he 
laughed awkwardly. All spontaneity had left them for ever as 
they stood there, and though Clint did his best to recapture it, it 
was far beyond the horizon of all their thoughts. 

“It’s not for me to tell you ” she said, drawing away from 
his hands. “Once I loved you, Eustace, I did reely, but that’s 
done and finished with, and I don’t care now.” 

“Georgie had a vile crossing,” Lady Mayfield broke in, 
snatching at Averil, and taking her forcibly to the door. “Poor 
old Gee, she’s upset. Make her go to bed, Eustace; it’s the 
only place when one feels like that.” 

Averil’s only contribution to the situation was a laugh, and 
as it reached the dark recesses where Georgie stood it seemed 
to awaken her once more to her agony. 

When they were alone Clint sat down and watched his wife 
with his wide blue eyes. He was furious with her, and she 
had affronted Averil, just when Averil meant a great deal to 
him, and he had a throbbing sense of possessorship towards her. 
Also, Averil had made him feel that his marriage was such 
a young fool’s mistake. She hadn’t actually discussed Georgie 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


147 


with him, but the contempt she felt for her had affected him, 
and he knew that Georgie was her inferior. It withered his 
love, and he saw her through hard, critical eyes. 

“Are you going to explain ?” he asked, forgetting that 
Georgie had not his own love of intricate explanation. 

“You’ve acted very badly,” she said, looking away from him. 
“That is for your own conscience, I s’pose. Anyhow, if it was 
you that led her astray you’ll be punished. If she was wicked 
before she met you, it doesn’t make so much difference to me, 
because I’m finished with you.” 

Clint flushed hotly; this was plain speech with a vengeance. 
His dignity as a man of honour, as well as that of a man of 
the world, suffered a shock, and he made an exclamation of 
disgust. If she imagined that she could talk to him like this, 
he must make it quite clear that she could not. 

“I don’t know what you are driving at,” he said. “You ap- 
pear to be accusing some one? Me or Miss Markham?” 

“I’ll say as little as I can,” the words dragged themselves 
out. “It’s not to quarrel with you, Eustace, but, my God! 
When I think of how I used to believe in you. Set you above 
all the world; you’re reeiy not a man at all. Why, poor Finney 
wouldn’t stoop to what you’ve done, and Milson would call it 
shameful.” Her face flamed, for as she looked again at Clint 
the thing became more clear to her. He was utterly spoiled 
for her, and his power to charm was gone. 

From Clint’s point of view the situation was becoming very 
awkward. Georgie spoke as one who had full knowledge, and 
if she had it was no use trying to bluff. He did not yet take 
in the whole meaning of the circumstances in which he found 
himself, but counted upon his own influence over her to stay 
the tempest. 

“I’m damn’ sorry, Gee,” he said awkwardly. She might be 
touched by honesty of speech. “I know I let myself go a bit 
too far. Be a sportsman, and forgive me this once.” 

He ought to have got up and thrown his arms around her 
and kissed her, but he did not really want her kisses, and, 
as he sat where he was, her stony demeanour worked up wrath 
in his heart. It unnerved him, because she ought to be crying 
— why the devil did she not cry ? There was nothing but silence 
everywhere, and he wondered how he was going to get out of 
the room. Georgie’s silence was full of angry intentness. She 
was wondering why she had ever loved him, or if she ever had, 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


148 

for just then he was in her eyes moat despicable. She told 
herself that she must not burst into tears. Time enough for 
crying later on, when this was over. 

“It's no good,” she said dryly. “I’m not the sort that gives 
in over things. What you’ve done is what I won’t never 
pardon.” 

He got up at last, and she seemed to be looking sorrowfully 
at him, so that his spirits rose and he advanced to her with a 
gay smile. “Come along, then,” he said. “We’re all human, 
aren’t we, Georgie?” His self-esteem rose up in revolt as she 
drew back with a sick look of disgust in her eyes. “Come, 
Gee, just a kiss, and then you may go for me as much as you 
like.” He stood and upbraided her. “Haven’t I done everything 
I could to make you happy and comfortable?” He thought 
of his cheque-book, and how she had nothing of her own ; there 
is no sin so grave, after all, as that of poverty, and Georgie 
was his dependent, even when he humoured her and pleaded and 
asked her forgiveness. 

“I don’t want nothing done for me,” she said wearily. “As 
for money, I’d not take it.” 

“I wasn’t speaking of money,” he said, with a renewal of 
his attitude of affront. “You speak as if you hate me. Why 
should you ? I’ve never done you any harm. All this,” he waved 
his hand vaguely, “is nothing. You exaggerate things. I love 
you better than anyone else, and I’ll do anything to please you 
— anything.” 

It seemed as though Georgie had not heard him, but her 
heart was sore at his words. He had made a poor fight of it, 
and she knew he was trying to trick her again, that every- 
thing he said was a lie. She must be placated. Nell had been 
just the same; the same motive inspired both brother and 
sister. Yet she could not look at his pleading blue eyes, because 
she feared that he might seem helpless and so break her re- 
solve, when he was only a sham. 

“Think what your own father would say, if we had any kind 
of break,” he urged. “Do show some consideration for his 
feelings.” 

“Dada’d die if he knew,” she said tragically. “But it is no 
use. You’re no more to me than the mud of the roads, and it 
would be awful to pretend. I can’t go back on myself, Eustace, 
and that’s the whole of what I have to say.” 

She passed him, holding herself erect and giving him a long 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 149 

reproachful look as she left the room, while Clint stood by the 
fireplace, his eyes on the coals. Women always made such an 
intolerable fuss about these things, but they came round, and 
Georgie would come round when she was rested, and a little used 
to the idea. He was still consoling himself with this thought 
when Lady Mayfield joined him, looking pinched and fagged. 

“Well?” she asked, putting her hand on his arm. 

“How did she find out?” he inquired savagely. 

“I don’t know. Talked to the housemaid probably. One 
can’t always be sure of what Gee will do. Did you smooth her 
down ?” 

“No,” he said shortly. 

“Then you’ll have to. And Averil is in a tantrum. She 
merely lies and sticks to it, and wants an apology from Georgie. 
She says her people will ” 

“Good Lord!” Clint stretched himself and yawned. The 
fire which had consumed him was dying out, and he felt that 
women were indeed the bane of a man’s life. 

“Go up to Georgie and talk sense to her,” he commanded. 
“I’ll settle Averil myself. It’ll be all right.” 

“Talk sense! I’ve been talking sense for hours upon hours,” 
Nell said with a scream of reproach. “But I’ll do my best for 
you, old thing.” 

“It will be all right,” Clint said again, as he walked from 
the room. After all, he had managed women all his life and 
relied upon his natural powers of persuasion. 

Lady Mayfield lighted a cigarette and began to ponder over 
a new line of argument. Georgie was married, and had taken 
Eustace for better or worse; it was her duty to recall him to a 
sense of responsibility. The law was on Georgie’s side, and 
legally she had every right known to woman. Eleanor felt 
that this was a good point to make, and one which might appeal 
to her sister-in-law’s stern view of duty. She did not want to 
clasp Eustace to her breast, but she must because, legally, she 
alone had the right to do so. As a Christian she must forgive, 
and as a wife she must clasp furiously. Lady Mayfield had just 
finished an argument carried on in her mind, in which she con- 
quered Georgie’s scruples, when she wandered to the window 
of the room that looked out over the drive, and the sight that 
met her eyes banished all else from her mind. 

Georgie was walking rapidly away from the house, carrying 
a handbag, and there was something dreadfully final in the 


i 5 o A RECKLESS PURITAN 

dark little silhouette travelling away so determinedly from the 
big house. 

On the impulse of the moment she ran to the smoking-room 
and opened the door. Clint and Averil were standing close 
together, and Nell was conscious that she had interrupted a 
reconciliation, but she did not care. 

“Georgie has gone !” she said. “What are we to do ?” 

Clint frowned; he felt that there ought to be a limit as to 
what amount of melodrama a man can be asked to endure 
within a few short hours. “I expect she has gone out. She 
looked seedy,” he said. “It may do her head good.” 

“She was carrying a bag,” Eleanor replied. “Why should 
she, if she only went out for a walk ?” 

But neither of them seemed to take any notice, and Lady 
Mayfield left them and went up to Georgie’s room. 

A little later she came down, holding a letter in her hand, 
and called to Clint to come to her. 

“Eve read it,” she said in a stupid voice. “It’s for you.” 
Clint walked to the window, and his eyes travelled over the 
badly-written lines. 

Tm going , and shall not come bach. One thing I pray of 
you, Eustace — don't let Dada know. I can explain so as he 
won't guess that there's a break between you and me. All 
the presents you gave me are together , and I have what Aunt 
Jane sent me, so that if you were to be worrying about me 
not having any money, you need not do so. Please just leave 
me alone. I know that we are married, and that to the end 
we may never change that , but after what has been it's not 
possible for me to live as your wife with you. 

“Georgie.” 

Eustace folded up the letter and put it in his pocket. 

“It’s about the best thing she could have done,” he said, 
“she will be back in a week, and everything all right. Don’t 
worry, Nell; the most she can have is about twenty pounds. 
God ! What fools some women are.” 

“But you must bring her back,” Lady Mayfield said franti- 
cally, “she is practically friendless. And she isn’t going to 
Ireland ?” 

“No, not to Ireland. I’m sure it’s all right. She hates 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


151 

London, she’ll be frightened there and be jolly glad to come 
home.” 

“Eustace!” Eleanor’s voice was charged with reproach. “You 
don’t know Georgie. She won’t come back ; she’d starve first.” 

“Not she,” he said. He was recalling Georgie’s look and 
the open disgust of her eyes. She had elected to accept a very 
real punishment for herself, and he did not regret it. He had 
supplicated, apologised and implored, and in return she stood 
above him. Now she might, in her turn, sue him for favours, 
and he would pardon her in due time. She had shattered his 
dignity for an hour, and without any exertion on his part, she 
was insane enough to pass sentence upon herself; there would 
be a pleasant sense of equality when she returned again. So 
he patted Eleanor on the shoulder and consoled her. 

“Make up some story that will do for the servants or any- 
one who asks,” he said. “It may only be twenty-four hours. 
She’s a good little sort, Nell, and I’m damned fond of her. Let 
her have a flutter and she’ll recover twice as fast.” 

But Eleanor was not mollified, she had stood a great deal 
that day and she broke into tears and reproaches. 

“I think you are utterly selfish,” she said, “you and Averil; 
you’ve both of you treated Georgie shamefully; but to let 
her go like this . . .” and she lay on the sofa shaken with a 
hysterical tempest of sobbing. 


CHAPTER XV 


Georgie’s arrival in London coincided with a week of dense 
fog, and to follow the course of her wanderings during the 
time that her little store dwindled away, would be to repeat 
a litany not unlike that of the Buddhist Hypongy, which con- 
sists of a dreary iteration of the words, “Sorrow, misery and 
despair.” Those who have known loneliness, discomfort and 
fear, or who have suffered from sudden and complete disillusion, 
know the heaviness of even the boldest heart, in a sharp en- 
counter with reality. 

She was entirely friendless and without any adviser, and the 
squalid little room she rented at an exorbitant sum, offered 
her nothing but a shelter from the weather. The dark house 
where she lived seemed symbolic of evil, it was so dirty, and 
her fellow lodgers looked at one another with hostile eyes. 

Her life at The Gleanings had unfitted her for discomfort 
and penury, and there was a cold feeling at her heart which 
she could not conquer. Never before had she been alone. In 
Ardclare, people dropped in at all hours of the day and were 
sociably inclined, and at The Gleanings there were often guests 
in the house, as well as callers. She had moved in small genial 
circles, and now, quite suddenly, she was cast entirely upon her 
own resources. At last Georgie was actually up against it, and 
knew that she was nothing but an infinitesimally small person, 
lost in a wide sea. 

She decided to call herself Miss Desmond once more, and 
put away her wedding ring, but it really all mattered very 
little. Her landlady, Mrs. Bank, a pale, overworked woman, 
who lived in the basement in the dark, like a mushroom, took 
no heed of her and accepted her carefully-prepared story with 
complete indifference, once she paid her rent in advance. No 
one cared. She might live or die, feast or starve, and they 
were all equally unmoved towards her fate. 

One thing Georgie had grasped, and that was that Mrs. Bank 
did not seem to think her a lady, and asked her whether she was 
working in a shop. She gave a noncommittal answer, and sat 

152 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


153 

brooding in her ugly, wretched little room, wondering whether 
it might not be best to try and get employment of that kind. 
She had no references to give, and expected that it might be 
difficult to obtain work without, yet at first this did not daunt 
her, and she began her weary struggle a day or two after she 
left The Gleanings. 

Very soon, Georgie experienced the growing pains of realisa- 
tion. The big shops where she went to make her first attempt 
overawed her, and she sought interviews with hard-looking, well 
dressed women, who treated her with scant politeness. They 
looked down upon her, and their scorn was unmitigated, so 
that she fell from her first standard and tried, with ever-lessen- 
ing hope, at small tobacconists and dingy little drapers’ shops 
in mean streets. But wherever she went the results were the 
same, though the manner of refusal was different, and at the 
end of a fortnight she was already starving herself, and count- 
ing the notes in her bag with feverish anxiety. 

No one wanted an untrained girl, who knew nothing about 
bookkeeping. The posts which could be taken by people without 
training were given to relatives or friends, and there was 
something about Georgie which proclaimed the fact that she 
was different to those, and they decided against her. Her 
clothes looked too good, and her round, impertinent little face 
suggested gaiety. You couldn’t believe that she was really 
honest but poor, and she had no recommendations. 

“Go back to your mother,” one kindly woman said to her, 
when she had bought a reel of cotton and asked if they wanted 
a saleswoman, or some one to help. 

“Indeed I’d be glad,” Georgie said, her eyes filling with tears. 
“And the churchyard would be my address.” 

The woman was sorry for her, but she could do nothing. 

It was not very easy to write cheerful letters to Dada, but 
somehow it was done. The streets frightened her, and once 
or twice when she had wandered about alone at a late hour, 
men had spoken to her, and one man, who was very drunk, 
caught her by the arm and tried to drag her into a public- 
house. 

Behind all the sordid anxiety of her days, Georgie had a 
numb pain at her heart. She had loved Eustace with great 
sincerity, and he had betrayed her and been unfaithful. She 
did her best to think as little as possible of the events preceding 
her departure, and yet there were times when her whole being 


154 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


cried aloud for love and comfort : both hopelessly far from her, 
so she clenched her teeth and fought on, trying not to think. 

Ardclare was as impossible for a place of refuge as The 
Gleanings, and she put all idea of return there away from her. 
How could she return and shatter Dada’s peace of mind and 
tranquillity? People would only talk and be unkind, for she 
knew the temper of her little world perfectly well. Beyond 
Miss White and Milson, and probably poor Finney, every one 
else would pick up a stone to hurl at her. Lady Hun would 
lead the phalanx of the righteous who felt that a woman’s place 
is with any kind of husband, and she could not go about plead- 
ing her own justification. Some would cut her, and others ac- 
cord her but scant mercy, and it would all fall upon Hada, who 
must be protected. So long as they all knew nothing, he would 
be the very last to suspect, so that she kept on writing cheerful 
letters, and she swore to herself that she would bear her burden 
alone, and without murmuring. 

Life was not a sweet, joyful place, where good things hap- 
pened, but a miserable cul-de-sac, and it was lonely and grubby 
in the bottom of the bag. 

During the second week, she began a fresh campaign and 
went from one jobmaster to another, asking for work as an 
instructress, but no one wanted to learn to ride side-saddle, and 
she was once more turned down with monotonous persistency. 
She had nothing to give in exchange for a living unless she 
chose the last solution and went on the streets. The very seri- 
ousness of her position made her pert of tongue, and she often 
wondered at herself during those dreadful days. People grew 
unreal. She watched them anxiously, all these strangers who 
had their own life-histories, wore clothes and ate food, and 
yet could not convince her of any fundamental reality in them- 
selves; and once she was in the street she felt as unreal to 
herself as any of them. Then, too, she was beset by her fear 
of losing her purse; and there was no one in the whole of 
London to talk to. 

Things grew no better, and she took the wedding ring that 
Clint gave her in those incredibly happy days, and decided 
to sell it at a pawn shop. The proceeds might possibly keep 
her in buns and tea for a week. After that she would have 
five pounds left, and after that . . . she felt her eyelids pucker 
and self-pity caught her throat as she told herself that the river 
was deep, cold and dependable. 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


155 

It was very cold in her little garret of a room, and she sat 
on her bed and held the ring in the palm of her hand. Who 
could tell to what strange ends things would eventually come? 
Where did things get to? Photographs once treasured, and all 
the presents people had been given ? She had left Simon West- 
ern’s watch on the side of a basin in a cheap restaurant, where 
the water had been hot and she had tried to give herself rather 
more of a wash than is usual in such places. 

When she left the shop she discovered her loss and retraced 
her steps quickly, but it was gone, and no one could tell her 
anything about it. That was the way; you put things down 
and were never able to lay hands on them again. She was 
going to sell her wedding ring, and she did not care. One 
blessing was, once you grew sufficiently hungry you really did 
not care what you sold. Georgie had endured six weeks of 
misery, and was getting callous at last. 

She put on her hat and walked down the staircase which 
lifted itself flight after flight to her cold room at the top, 
and decided that she would go up to Oxford Street as it was 
easy to get at. Her ignorance of London was a constant trou- 
ble to her, and she was always losing herself in side streets. 
As she slammed the door behind her she thought how horrified 
Dada would be if he could guess her mission. 

Once she had work to do, she could change her quarters and 
tell Dada to address his letters to her, care of a newspaper shop. 
The thought worried her constantly, and she was obsessed by it 
as she walked through the indifferent crowd. Crowds depressed 
her now, and she took no interest in them any more. She was 
afraid to look at a man after her experiences in the Strand, 
or to loiter along admiring the beautiful things in the shops. 
She was marching with a huge, ugly army, yet she could not 
speak to any of her comrades, because they were all suspicious 
and might think she meant something wrong. 

Her own loneliness appalled her, and she climbed into a bus, 
sitting down near the door. Was no one ever kind in this over- 
whelming world of strangers? 

Georgie’s imagination began to play odd little tricks with 
her. At one moment she was in the bus with a whole crowd 
of tired people, some standing nearly on her feet, and at an- 
other she was riding Skinny Jane, a hunter that had belonged 
to Milson Rogers, and because of an old saddle gall was ticklish 
just over the quarters. She could see Milson’s pointed face 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


156 

and sharp eyes, and the laugh in them. And then, without 
knowing how she got there, she was in Ardclare Church, Lord 
Duncarrig reading the lessons, and she heard the intonation 
of his voice clearly. 

“Whither thou goest, I will go, where thou lodgest, I will 
lodge. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.” 

She sighed and returned to the present, and the bus stopped 
with a racking jerk at Oxford Circus, the people in the centre 
pushing roughly out, while others at the further end were now 
disclosed to her, and she saw with a paralysed sense of emotion 
that she had been travelling with Lousada. 

Her first idea was flight, but on second thoughts the pros- 
pect of having some one to speak to was too precious to be 
thrown recklessly aside, and when he looked at her she smiled 
as she was borne outwards, and waited for him on the pave- 
ment. 

He looked just the same. There was some unalterable qual- 
ity in Lousada, and his reddish skin and sandy hair gave him 
an appearance of tremendous health and vitality. His veiled, 
grey eyes smiled. 

“So here we are again,” he said, raising his battered hat. 

“And you’ve not run to a new caubeen either,” she replied 
critically. “Your hat’s a show, Mr. Lousada.” 

“Evidence of fidelity,” he remarked. 

“Well,” she said a little vaguely, “and how are you?” 

“Will you lunch with me?” he suggested. “Or are you up 
for shopping?” 

Georgie flushed and looked away. “I could lunch with you,” 
she said, ashamed of her feeling of hunger. “Indeed, I’d like 
to.” 

“Good,” Lousada replied, and he studied her carefully. “I’m 
not up in restaurants. Do you know of anywhere?” 

“Somewhere near,” she suggested, though it was still early. 
“I’m fearfully hungry.” 

“Splendid,” he said in friendly tones. “We will walk into 
the first fairly decent-looking place and take our chance.” 

At last life was real again for Georgie. She had stepped 
back out of the country of bad dreams and was on firm land 
once more. But the luncheon was not going to be unalloyed 
pleasure, for she would have to pretend, and she had an uneasy 
feeling that Lousada was not readily deceived. 

They walked into a small restaurant, which was still empty 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


157 


and dark, and the white cloths on the tables gleamed like 
patches of snow left over after a thaw, but the place was 
warm and clean, and a waiter rushed towards them, captured 
them and set them in a corner, while he turned on an electric 
light, screened by a pink shade. 

It was heavenly to be out of the crowded loneliness of the 
streets, and to be anchored even for an hour, and Georgie’s 
eyes grew bright as she smiled at him. 

“Shall we let ourselves be fed or shall we order food?” he 
enquired. “I always envy a man who can take up a menu 
card and select things. I expect Clint can do that kind of 
thing, can’t he?” 

At the mention of her husband, Georgie grew serious again. 
“Oh, yes, he’s awfully clever that way,” she agreed. 

“Who is he giving lunch to, this time?” 

“I’m up on me lonesome,” she replied. “Eustace isn’t here 
at all.” 

Lousada handed himself over to the waiter, and waved him 
away. “Yes, anything, and some red wine. You’ll drink red 
wine, won’t you?” 

“I don’t mind if I do,” Georgie agreed. She intended to 
take whatever the gods provided, asking no questions. 

“Now, that’s done,” Lousada said in the tones of a man who 
is satisfied. “Tell me all the news. How is your father?” 

“Going strong,” she glanced down at her hands and became 
aware that her wedding ring was missing. It lay in her pocket, 
and she wondered if Lousada would notice its absence. 

“And Lady Mayfield?” 

“Nell’s all right.” 

“Everything, in fact, is highly satisfactory?” 

“I’m awfully sick of England,” she said suddenly and with 
feeling. “I think it’s a horrid old place, and I wish to goodness 
I’d never come here.” 

“What’s wrong with it?” he asked; and the waiter planted 
a selection of hors d J oeuvres between them. 

“The English are hypocrites,” she said defiantly. “There’s 
something fearfully mean about hypocrites.” 

“One minute,” he interrupted her, “you are speaking of the 
people you have met at The Gleanings. Every country is 
damned by its upper middle-class, your own as well as this. 
Go lower, and you will find something better.” 

“Maybe,” Georgie said thoughtfully, “yet I don’t know. In 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


158 

the shops they’re as unkind as anywhere else.” She felt that 
she had made a mistake, but it was too late to recall it, and 
Lousada helped her to some wine, and made no comment what- 
ever. 

“They don’t b’lieve, you see,” she said hastily. “In Ireland 
people speak of the will of God, and they mean it. Only, here, 
no one speaks of that.” 

“Perhaps the will of God continues all the same,” he said; 
and she glanced at him to see if he were laughing at her, but 
to her relief he looked quite serious. 

“I’ve been thinking a heap lately,” she said lamely. “I don’t 
know why.” 

“It’s given you two small lines,” he said. “After all, is it 
worth it?” 

Georgie put her elbows on the table. Her blue velvet hat 
framed her face, and Lousada thought that she looked almost 
beautiful in spite of a shadowy suggestion that something was 
wrong. Her hands were not very clean, and she was wearing 
no rings. 

“If you thought a thing mattered,” she said, “would you allow 
anyone down-face you over it?” 

“Ho. Why?” 

“Even if it meant a heap of trouble?” 

“I don’t think I should let that alter my views. In fact, 
can one alter them to order?” He seemed interested, and then 
he asked her a question. “Who brought you up ?” 

“Is it rared me? Why, Kate Love and Dada between them, 
with the help of Miss White. But she had it that she came on 
board too late, and that I’d learnt my pronounciation from poor 
Katie, and couldn’t be cured of it.” 

“Then, logically, you are in for rough weather,” he said when 
he had reflected for a moment. He was thinking that Clint 
must be tired of the toy, and was arriving at the phase when 
he would want to break it in bits. “My advice to you is the 
same as it was first.” 

“Never do anything I don’t want to do,” she laughed almost 
wildly; “I’ve not forgotten it, you see.” 

“Is anyone trying to force you to do anything else ?” he asked. 

“Only myself,” she retorted. “Don’t let’s talk of it, it’s all 
silly nonsense enough, Mr. Lousada. Tell me, have you a 
sister?” 

Lousada shook his head. “I’ve no one,” he replied. “Not 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


159 

now, at least. They died — I mean, my father and mother, when 
I was quite young.” 

“Oh dear! How shocking. I’m awfully sorry. When I 
think of Dada and all he’s done for me, I understand.” 

“One has memories,” he said evasively. “Anyhow, I grew 
up, and here I am.” 

“And what do you do? Oh, you told me, you’re in an office. 
It’s hard to believe that, Mr. Lousada. Were you ever all alone, 
without a Christian to speak to? Wouldn’t that be a queer 
way to be?” 

“I am usually alone, and as for Christians to speak to, I know 
so few.” 

“Suppose you were stranded high and dry, and that no one 
cared a rush what happened to you?” She was on the verge 
of breaking down, but the reappearance of the waiter forced 
her to control herself. 

“I am quite doubtful if any one does care,” he said. “But 
why all these questions?” he watched her again with the same 
intent look. He opened his case and gave her a cigarette, which 
she lighted with a sigh of joy. 

“God be good to the man who invented cigarettes,” she said 
ecstatically. “I’ll collar a couple of them, if it’s all the same 
to you.” 

“Will six see you home?” he asked. “Wait, I think I can 
get a box here.” 

She smoked silently for a few minutes, her eyes dreamy and 
full of thought, as he selected a couple of gorgeous-looking 
cardboard cases from a tray. “Turks, Russians, and Virgin- 
ians,” he said, taking out a handful of silver and paying for 
them. “Funny, isn’t it, to bum paper like that?” 

“Awf’lly,” she replied, her mind distant from him. Once 
again she was beset by the sense of living in two worlds, and 
the unreality of the sordid side of the days was intensified. 
She must have dreamed it, and those fearful interviews when 
she had tried to get the elegant ladies in the big shops to give 
her a trial, or those other days when she had gone humbly to 
poor little places and begged piteously for employment. Was 
she really Georgie? She could forget it for a moment, only 
that she must so soon face it once more. And the jobmasters 
who did not want her, and ail the other people in London who 
did not want her, and lastly, Mrs. Bank, who, directly she 
failed to pay, would certainly not want her. Clint did not want 


i6o 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


her either, and so there was only Dada left who did, and to 
him she could not turn, because, in the dreadful conditions 
of affairs, even if Dada did want her, well . . . why, of course, 
he would continue to want her, only it complicated everything 
so dreadfully. Lousada did not interrupt her, he seemed to have 
thoughts of his own which occupied him. “A penny for your 
thoughts,” she said at last, coming back to him. 

“I must have time to put a pinch of salt on a tail,” he said, 
awaking and smiling at her. “Which of them?” 

“That’s true,” Georgie commented. “They have a tricksy 
way of getting off with theirselves, I know it of old.” 

“I was thinking of your problem,” he said, hunching his 
shoulders, “other people’s problems are always interesting be- 
cause one can solve them easily, which is different with our own. 
Every woman really governs her husband. That is my first 
point.” 

“Does she, indeed?” Georgie winked at him. She winked 
because she felt peculiarly miserable. 

“Once upon a time,” he said, craning his neck forward, his 
eyes smiling at her over his large nose, “there was a Sultan 
of Turkey, and at an audience he held in his palace a poor 
man came to him and begged for a firman , which is the Sul- 
tan’s permission to do certain things. It happened that day 
that the Sultan was in a good temper, and he asked the poor 
creature what he wanted it for. The man explained that he 
wished to tax every husband who was under the thumb of his 
wife, one halfpenny.” 

Georgie listened contentedly. She liked the idea of being 
told a story, it kept the shadows at bay. 

“The Sultan granted the necessary permission,” Lousada con- 
tinued, still smiling, “and some years went by. One Friday, 
when the faithful were on their way to the mosque, the Sultan 
saw a man riding in his train with a great assembly of serv- 
ants, and as he appeared rich and powerful, he asked his name 
and desired that he should be brought to him. This was done, 
and the man knelt before the Sultan. ‘I am he to whom you 
once granted a firman / he said. ‘From every man who was 
afraid of his wife, I have taken one halfpenny, and so I am 
now, through grace of the Sultan’s generosity, a rich man.’ 
The Sultan laughed, and called his courtiers to listen. ‘And 
out of my gratitude I have brought a gift to thee. Lord and 
Ruler, a beautiful Circassian slave.’ 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


161 

“The Sultan looked doubtful. Tt is well/ he said, ‘but first 
let me consult with my head wife, for the ways of the harem 
must be observed/ ‘And will you then also, Lord an'd Ruler, 
give me a halfpenny ?’ ” Lousada knocked the ash off his ciga- 
rette. 

“So you see, even when people are Sultans, they are often, 
in reality, ruled by their wives.” 

Georgie looked at him nervously. “Is that so?” she said. 
“Perhaps it is.” 

“I suspect you of having married a Sultan,” he said. “You 
see, I knew Clint ten years back.” 

“And if he is?” her voice was tremulous, “I can’t put a new 
pair of ears on him, as Jacky Laffan said when he bought a 
donkey instead of a jennet, because he was drunk at the 
time*.” 

“Tell me, are you really having a row with Clint, or did I 
only imagine it?” he said abruptly. 

She closed- her eyes and thought of the streets and the faces, 
the awful multitudes of strangers by which she was surrounded. 
What a relief to tell him the whole story, but then, Clint was 
her husband and it was mean to tell tales. She collected her- 
self with an effort and decided to lie, but to do this convincingly 
she had to look down. 

“We’re as thick as thieves,” she said in cheerful tones. “Now 
and then we fall out, but by way of no harm. None of us are 
perfect.” 

Lousada signed to the waiter and paid the bill; his calm 
seemed so profound that Georgie was reassured, so she ventured 
again. 

“D’you b’lieve in God, Mr. Lousada?” she asked in a husky 
voice. 

“Yes,” he said, replacing his change in his pocket. 

“I’m glad of that,” she said, fastening her coat. “Because 
if one does b’lieve, nothing really matters.” 

“Not if you look at it that way.” He took down his coat. 
“But you come from a land where martyrdom is in the sod. 
Don’t make yourself a martyr, only because it’s Irish.” 

“Is it me a martyr?” She giggled self-consciously. 

“I have a feeling, and I go a great deal by my ‘feels’ — some 
kind of inward whispering gallery — that you are, most un- 
fortunately for your own comfort, an authentic Irishwoman, 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


162 

with a racial tendency towards martyrdom. I’m sure you need 
a conventional standard.” 

“Nell was always laughing at principles,” Georgie said, rem- 
iniscently. “Silly nonsense, I s’pose.” 

“Then you have made up your mind to tell me nothing?” 

They were in the street now, and Georgie saw the remainder 
of the day stretched gaunt and haggard before her; he was 
just going away, never perhaps to return, and this might be 
their last meeting. He seemed to divine her thought, for he 
took a card from a pocket-book and gave it to her. 

“My club address is in the corner,” he said. “It looks as 
though I were becoming less of a fatalist? Where are you off 
to now?” 

“Oh, the moon, once it’s up,” she said, fighting her de- 
pression which leapt upon her like a tiger, “by way of Pic- 
cadilly Circus. What a funny name they have on these places, 
Mr. Lousada. Circus, indeed. ’Tisn’t my idea of a circus. We 
used to go to them every single year in Ardclare, and I used 
to dream that I’d be a dancer, and jump through paper hoops.” 

“Even martyrs may have frivolous dreams,” he suggested. 
“You are the first I have known at all well.” 

“You and your old martyrs,” she retorted, “and you mak- 
ing game of me.” 

“Drop me a line from the moon,” he said, holding her hand 
loosely for a second. “It sounds rather a nice place, only a 
long way off.” 

“If you’d come from Ardclare, you’d have said I was often 
th’ old man with the bundle of sticks. That is, if you were Mrs. 
Erancis or Clementina Sharkey.” 

“Oh, I’m only one of th’ English,” he replied, and he watched 
her go away, until she was lost in the surging crowd. 

And then he, too, turned away, looking outwardly calm and 
assured, but his mind was by no means at rest, and the question 
he asked himself was, “Why has she not told me, why couldn’t 
she let me help her?” and then he reasoned that after all, 
Georgie was just Georgie and must go her own way, having, 
what is a wonderfully rare attribute, the courage to do so alone. 
No confidants, no ally with shelter to offer, none of the excite- 
ment of being a heroine of some kind, however dubious, stand- 
ing in the limelight. Not a single support to cling to, with a 
strange world around her. But he smiled the smile of a man 
who has suddenly seen something very beautiful and satisfying. 


CHAPTER XVI 


Mrs. Campion Sandys was going through a period of mental 
aggravation. She was a good-looking woman of something 
over forty, with fine features, straggling hair with no curl in 
it, and a slender figure. Her eyes were the eyes of a philan- 
thropist, with the eager vagueness of a follower of many lights. 
She had a flat in Chelsea, at the top of a large converted house, 
which reflected her views. You could gather a good deal from 
studying the backs of her books in the shelves at either side 
of the fireplace, and among these were the works of Mr. Have- 
lock Ellis, Mr. E. D. Morel, Professor Patrick Geddes, Mrs. Be- 
sant, Mr. Eustace Miles, Mr. Rawson, Sir Rabindranath Tagore, 
and the pioneers of many different movements. There was 
hardly any League concerned with public service of any kind to 
which Mrs. Sandys did not or had not belonged at one time 
or other. She was progressive in the sense that she wandered 
from one cause to another and was equally enthusiastic about 
all of them while her zeal lasted, dying down only to rise up- 
wards again in the service of another Cause. 

As she had long since devoted herself to the well-being of the 
world outside, it was no grief to her when Campion Sandys 
passed over. She was a spiritualist at that time and was able 
to continue her conversations with her husband through a 
medium, whom she discovered to be a fraud only when she had 
exhausted the possibilities of revelation and was going through 
the materialistic phase, which followed. Soon after Campion’s 
death, she established herself in the little flat in Chelsea and 
gave her whole undivided energy to the promotion of good 
works. By temperament she was broad-minded and intense, 
and believed that she had escaped from the snare of individual, 
affections by bestowing her love upon humanity in general. 

Her mystic eyes and deep, sweet voice made her attractive 
and she had a great deal of personal charm. As was natural, 
she was a tremendous talker, and had a secret love for lime- 
light which developed during the suffrage campaign, when she 
held informal meetings in Sloane Square, and grew into a 

163 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


164 

habit of expressing her views in the style of a popular speaker. 
Her time was crowded with appointments, and she sat on a 
number of Committees and Boards, and had stood as a candi- 
date in the municipal elections and very nearly got in. Her flat 
was a centre of energy, and she collected numbers of people 
in her vague way, but most of all she was pledged to the help 
of her own sex. It is a little disappointing -to have to record 
of her that her friendships were as hectic and ephemeral as 
her love of the new Causes in which she enlisted herself, and 
she had a way of finding people out when she got to know 
them too well. In fact she shed her chosen companions as 
regularly as she discovered something new which "seemed to 
her to be the explanation of life; and though she was seldom 
bitter against former allies, she suffered from disillusionment, 
which invariably urged her the more violently towards her 
latest discovery, either in friends or in work. 

As she was quite indifferent to household matters she was, 
in a way, at the mercy of her domestic ruler, and after a 
“treasure” had been with her a month or less, some crisis oc- 
curred which proved conclusively that Mrs. Sandys had been 
once more deceived in her judgment of human nature. Her 
flat was small and compact, and had a solemn effect. The 
walls of the sitting-room were papered in dark grey and the 
furniture was angular and uncomfortable, but it did not lack 
distinction and might have been the room of a rather senti- 
mental don, who had a mission which forced him towards the 
dawn of wide liberty. 

Her enemies said of her that she was always spoiling just 
Causes by her fatal habit of exaggeration, and felt that she 
deterred people who would otherwise have joined, through an 
unbalanced zeal, but she was quite genuine and most of her 
income went to the support of her last found enthusiasm. 

Still, however spiritually minded man or woman may be, it 
is necessary to have a cook, and some one to do the dusting, 
and Mrs. Sandys was at the mercy of this general rule. Her 
ideal domestic helper was one who would regard her work 
symbolically, and who would feel that there was real distinc- 
tion in waiting upon her; the ideal being just about as diffi- 
cult to find in a general servant as it is anywhere else. Mrs. 
Sandys, with the best intentions in the world, was not always 
sympathetic. She expected a great deal, though she did not 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 165 

know it, and since she had become a strict vegetarian, the prob- 
lem had grown in difficulty. 

“I want a thinker,” she said in her charming voice. “Some 
one who will be on level terms with me.” But when it came to 
facts, the ‘level terms” had a way of vanishing, and then she 
spoke of “vulgar minds.” She had, behind all her gentle vague- 
hess, a sharp eye to the quantities used in the kitchen, and 
frequently the whole alliance ended in a row. As she was very 
sensitive, and any kind of criticism hurt her feelings, a do- 
mestic upheaval was disastrous to her work, so that she suffered 
considerably. She had tried ladies, who were very incompe- 
tent, she thought, and who did not seem to be ladies and were 
given to arguing with her, and she had tried reformed drunk- 
ards and girls with a bad mark against their name, and just 
then she was suffering from a few direct and well-placed 
phrases from a cook-general who objected to what she called 
“poking and prying.” - 

“I took you without a reference,” Mrs. Sandys protested 
heatedly, “and now I very much regret it.” 

“And where do I come in ?” the girl asked. “The boot is on 
the other foot, if you ask me. We have to go out to places 
knowing nothing at all of them, and stand the chance of being 
made miserable or starved to death. It’s we who should give 
you a character.” 

“I shall not keep you,” Mrs. Sandys said angrily, and the 
girl replied that for no consideration would she remain. She 
had washed up the previous night for six unexpected guests, 
and as it was her evening out she felt the righteousness of 
her grievance. 

“But you should regard it as a privilege,” Mrs. Sandys ex- 
plained. “Mr. Fenton and Mr. Archdale Annesly are doing 
wonderful work in the world,” and she left the kitchen dis- 
gusted by the ingratitude of the domestic helper. 

The girl went away at once, which was also intensely irritat- 
ing, as Mrs. Sandys never knew whom she might not wish to 
entertain. She was due at a committee meeting of the “Health 
and Hope League,” and if she rushed to a central registry office 
she might have time to interview a successor who could step 
at once into the vacant place. She did not want to pay large 
wages, and was careful on these points, though her subscrip- 
tions were usually lavish and she gave more than a tenth of her 
money to charity, but some queer little kink in her mind caused 


1 66 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


her to be parsimonious at the wrong place, which inevitably re- 
acted on her own head. 

She decided to rush to get a stop-gap, if nothing else offered, 
and she put on her hat and coat in the small bedroom which 
opened from the sitting-room. Every one said it was nearly 
impossible to find a girl who could cook, but as she was a vege- 
tarian it mattered less than it might otherwise have done. 

With a sigh over her own troubles, she left the flat and took 
a passing bus which conveyed her as far as Regent Street, and 
she made her way to the doors of a large registry office, where 
she was already well — even too well — known. 

A woman with a set of shining false teeth, and a very ornately 
dressed head of white hair, which also discouraged confidence, 
looked at her through glasses, and greeted her by name. “Not 
another failure, Mrs. Sandys? Dear me, this is too bad. I al- 
ways say that the girls nowadays are far too independent.” 

“I don’t object to independence,” Mrs. Sandys replied ear- 
nestly. “You must not say that, because I encourage it, but 
I want a girl who will see the beauty of work.” 

The woman with the pince-nez smiled quite savagely. “I 
am sure we will find one on the books. We have had to raise 
our fees on account of the cost of living.” Mrs. Sandys looked 
slightly worried, but laid down a ten-shilling note, feeling a 
shade less friendly as she did so. “I will send you a list of 
names,” the proprietress of the registry office said cordially, 
“one of them is sure to suit.” She was always very polite to 
Mrs. Sandys, who could be counted upon to pay her fee at 
least four or five times in the year, and so she had reason to 
appreciate her. 

“But I must have some one now,” Mrs. Sandys moved her 
hands dramatically. “Ethel Pratt walked out on the spot. You 
understand that with so many calls upon my time I simply can- 
not do the housework. It’s impossible.” 

Mrs. Foss, the proprietress, shook her head doubtfully. “I 
have one or two girls in this morning,” she said, looking towards 
a door on her left, “but no one I can recommend for your 
work.” 

“I require so little,” Mrs. Sandys protested. “Since I have 
discovered that I think so much better on vegetable foods, 
I really only want a strong pair of arms, and some one with a 
love of work for work’s sake.” 

Mrs. Foss permitted herself to smile. “If you are in such 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


167 

immediate difficulties we must see what can be done,” she said, 
with the manner of a duchess, “but remember, madam, I do 
not advise you to engage any of the girls I have at the mo- 
ment.” She took out a list and glanced over it, murmuring 
the names to herself. 

Mrs. Sandys was seated on a chair near the table, and a 
bright fire burned in an open grate. She forgot all about the 
question at hand and began to go over the short address she 
intended to give in an hour’s time. She dressed plainly but 
well, and her face in repose was sad and rather saintly, as 
though she might have sat for a Madonna to a modern artist 
who made a living by painting popular religious pictures. 

“Georgina Desmond!” Mrs. Foss read out, “not placed so far. 
No former experience and has never been out. Says she can 
cook and do housework, and is twenty-three. No references.” 

Mrs. Sandys awoke from her thoughts. “I haven’t time to 
verify any, as the case stands. It is urgent, as I told you. What 
did you say ?” 

“I have a girl twenty-tfiyee who has never been out. She is 
Irish.” Once again Mrs. Foss gave a quick, inquisition glance 
towards her client. She had formed her own opinion of 
Georgina Desmond, and felt that she would not be easy to place. 
In fact, she disliked her, but Mrs. Sandys was sure to be de- 
lighted at first, and equally disappointed later, whoever it 
was, so she felt that it might be a chance. 

“Irish?” Mrs. Sandys grew interested. “I am very much 
occupied with Irish questions. The women over there have 
shown so little intelligence with regard to the franchise; and 
are they not very bad servants ?” 

“There are exceptions to every rule,” Mrs. Foss replied ju- 
dicially. “Desmond may be one. Will you see her?” 

“I have just ten minutes,” Mrs. Sandys said in a flurried 
voice, “and of course I must settle this wretched question.” 

She got up and walked into a small room, cold and dank, 
where she had interviewed numerous other prospective serv- 
ants; she always felt a little nervous when called upon to 
do so. Long habit had not cured her. She sat down again and 
fiddled with the papers she carried and then the door opened 
and Mrs. Foss spoke in her commanding, officious voice. “Here 
is Miss Desmond, Mrs. Sandys. She will answer any ques- 
tions you may like to put to her.” 

Mrs. Sandys looked up and felt a slight sensation of sur- 


1 68 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


prise. She had expected something different, though what, 
she could not have said. Georgina Desmond wore very good 
clothes, and a smart hat, and her first thought was that here 
was a soul to save. The girl could never have got those clothes 
honestly, and it rather inclined her towards engaging her. She 
thought next, that for any one so young, the girl looked as 
though she had suffered a great deal, and there was something 
very taking about the curious, half defiant blue eyes which 
met her own. 

“You are Georgina Desmond?” she asked, smiling kindly 

“I am” 

“You’ve not been in service before? I don’t call it service, 
really,” Mrs. Sandys explained, “only one has to use some 
word. I mean, you’ve lived with your people.” 

“Over in Ireland, that’s my home.” The inflection in 
Georgie’s voice pleased Mrs. Sandys, and she thought of the 
Abbey Theatre. It would be quite new to have some one who 
talked with such an attractive brogue, and she smiled again, 
and to her pleasure, the smile was returned. 

“And you’ve come to England to improve yourself. Quite 
right.” She began to think that after all, Georgie might have 
been given the coat and skirt by an aunt, only the hat was so 
unmistakably Bond Street. 

“I’ve got to get work,” Georgie replied guardedly, lowering 
her eyes at once. 

“Ah, I see; probably you did not think that you would ever 
have to, at one time ? Can you cook?” 

“I’m not at all so bad at cooking,” Georgie pronounced the 
word as if there were three o’s in it. “I can make sponge cakes 
that would melt in your mouth, reely, I can, and though Kate’d 
hunt me if I tried roasting or boiling, I am pretty sure I can 
do it.” 

“Kate is your sister, I suppose?” Mrs. Sandys smiled again 
and looked at her wrist-watch anxiously. “I never eat meat. 
It’s poison.” 

Georgie raised her hand to her mouth, with an involuntary 
gesture and hid a broad smile. She was utterly miserable and 
wretched, but Mrs. Sandys amused her, and she liked “the cut” 
of her well enough. 

“You can cook vegetables?” 

“Indeed I can,” Georgie said recklessly. 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 169 

“And you are clean and careful. I hope, too, that you are 
scrupulously honest?” 

Georgie flushed and felt hostile, but she made an effort to 
conquer her sense of affront. “I’ve never stolen anything, if 
you mean that?” she said. “I am honest.” 

Their eyes met, and Mrs. Sandys felt satisfied. “Are you 
really fond of work?” she asked. “I do not ever exact any- 
thing, and you will be quite at home with me. I want a girl 
whom I can trust, and as I live all alone there is almost noth- 
ing to do. You can go out whenever you are free. It is a 
question of personal honour, and I never interfere, though of 
course,” she added hastily, “I am particular about cleanliness 
and early rising. You see, I give up most of my time to 
really serious things, so I have to rely a great deal on the 
girl who undertakes my work.” 

“It sounds grand,” Georgie said with a sigh. She was feel- 
ing rather giddy from want of food, and wondered how long 
it could be before she was required. Mrs. Eoss had dis- 
couraged her hopelessly, and every lady whom she had inter- 
viewed declined even to give her a trial. 

“You are quite healthy?” Mrs. Sandys looked at her more 
closely. “Or are you always pale?” 

“I have a fine blush when I’m in the country,” Georgie said, 
“only in London the streets and all that, take away from the 
air.” 

“Where are you staying?” 

Georgie gave the address of a Salvation Army Hostel, and 
Mrs. Sandys looked astonished. Evidently the girl was all but 
destitute. She reconsidered the wages she intended to offer, and 
felt that ten shillings a week was ample for anyone who must 
be quite penniless. 

“I hope they treat you well there?” she said. “I know Lady 
Bancombe, who has interested herself in the work.” 

“Not too bad,” Georgie replied. “I play the harmonium, as 
I know most of the Sankey’s; we have Tow to the shore, 
sailor* and all the ones I know.” Her eyes filled and she 
took out a tattered little pocket handkerchief and blew her 
nose hard. 

“Then were you — are your people ?” Mrs. Sandys 

groped for a suitable word. “Something to say to the Estab- 
lished Church,” she concluded, grasping at a concrete phrase. 

‘Tm a clergyman’s daughter,” Georgie replied. 


170 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


There was a short pause, and then Georgie was seized by a 
fear that after all she might not suit, so she put her back into 
the contest. “I’d dearly like to come,” she said, her face wistful 
and pleading. “I’m as strong as horses, and you’d find me 
satisfactory. Ever and always, except for a bit, I was used to 
housework, and at the hostel I’ve made meself useful. Though 
it’s not much to boast of, it’s quite friendly-like, and better than 
being alone.” 

Mrs. Sandys was moved to pity, even though the time in 
which she could express it was drawing to a close. 

“You shall have ten shillings a week, and I will take you 
on a fortnight’s trial. I will make you very happy, and if you 
understand the real beauty of work it will be so satisfactory.” 
She got up, still speaking. “Very interesting people come to 
my flat, and there is a great opportunity for you to learn. 
We all have to learn, you know, and I still do so myself.” 

“Not reely,” Georgie said, for she was thoroughly impressed. 

“And I give help myself,” Mrs. Sandys added, “though I am 
very busy. In working for me you are helping me to give 
my time to those who really need it.” She gave Georgie a 
bright glance of encouragement. The girl interested her and 
she was curious to know her story, as she supposed it was the 
usual one of seduction. Her father was, of course, not a clergy- 
man, and she had probably been deceived by a smart looking 
shop-walker. Mrs. Sandys had headed a campaign against 
shop-walkers and, during its run, had collected a mass of evi- 
dence, all of which went to prove that they were very untrust- 
worthy gentlemen, only excelled in villainy by commercial 
travellers. In any case, she was sorry for Georgie and liked 
her none the worse, though, luckily for herself, she let no hint 
of her conclusions appear in her manner. 

“Are you a Theist?” she asked, opening her bag and taking 
out a card. 

“A what?” Georgie demanded. 

“Only just to know whether you are Church of anything.” 
Mrs. Sandys smiled with great intensity. “I have passed be- 
yond the churches, myself, so I shall not be shocked if you 
say that you, too, have . . . dear me, I thought I had a 
card.” 

“I’m Church of Ireland,” Georgie said stoutly. She could 
not quite follow the line of Mrs. Sandys’s thought, but that 
much she could say unhesitatingly. “And since I came t’Eng- 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


171 

land, I’ve been surprised at bow few people go t’evening 
cburch.” 

“Ah, here we are.” Mrs. Sandys captured a card. “The girl 
who was with me left me this morning, and I should like 
you to go direct to the flat. The caretaker will let you in 
if you give her this.” She scribbled on it in pencil. “You can 
unpack and tidy up. I feel sure that the presses want cleaning 
— my last help was horribly careless — and burnt saucepans. You 
will find Sensible Diet in the kitchen drawer, to help you with 
ideas; but I eat almost nothing. I11 any case I shall be out 
to-night as I have to address the women workers at Hoxton.” 
She grew more and more fussed as she spoke. “Regularity is 
everything , Miss — ah — er — ?” 

“Desmond,” Georgie suggested. 

“Miss Desmond, so that you need only provide for yourself. 
Cocoa and — oh, something — I am sure you will find something. 
See that there is plenty of cress, by the way, it is quite the 
most nutritious of the soft vegetables. I work a ten-hour day 
almost entirely on cress.” 

“Is it that I’m to go there now?” Georgie asked, keeping a 
tremble out of her voice as she spoke. “I have some luggage,” 
she hesitated, wondering if she could ask for her bus fare or 
whether it was more polite to pretend she had it. Her last 
penny had gone in buying a stamp to put on a letter to Dada. 

“That is the address. The first turn on the left just above 
the picture palace, and the second block of flats. Mine is at 
the top, but the caretaker will show you. 'Good-bye.” She 
smiled and went out, leaving her bag behind her, only to dis- 
cover her loss when she was far away in a bus. “I never leave 
things about,” she explained to the conductress, “so I don’t 
know how it could have happened.” 

Georgie possessed herself of the bag, borrowed some cop- 
pers and walked to the table where Mrs. Foss sat. 

“I’ve been engaged,” she said with a touch of triumph. 

“You’ve got hold of a nice problem.” Mrs. Foss pressed her 
lips together. “No girl ever stays with Mrs. Sandys, but it’s 
a chance, and as you have no training you are very lucky to 
get it.” 

“She seems a nice lady,” Georgie said. “What’s up with 
her?” 

“Do you mean, why is it the girls don’t stay? Ah, I’ll leave 
you to discover that for yourself. No use putting you off the 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


172 

start. Very well, half your first month's wages. By the way, 
what terms did you make?” 

“Ten shillings a week and all found.” Georgie gave a little 
gurgle of laughter. It was all so queer that it had to be funny, 
or one would just sit down and cry, and she had cried so much 
of late that her tears were exhausted. 

“I thought so. She paid Pratt fifteen. However, it will be a 
start,” and Mrs. Foss stiffened and became regal again as a 
lady in heavy furs walked in. “It’s Lady Comerforth,” she 
said in an aside as her new client walked in, carrying a Pe- 
kinese dog, and Georgie turned away and hid her face until all 
danger of recognition was passed. 

It had been an awful moment, and she suffered as she heard 
Constance Comerforth’s light, tinkling voice inquiring with 
intense boredom for a “cook who can cook.” 

Yet she was saying prayers of wild gratitude in the depth of 
her heart for the mercy which had been vouchsafed to her, 
in that she was engaged as a general servant, and could have 
some kind of home once more. She need drop no lower for 
lodgings and could forsake the grimy hostel which had been 
indeed a last resort. Even to think of the stages between was 
dreadful and heart-breaking, and fear had a way of growing 
gigantic when the street lamps were lighted and London opened 
night doors. 

She took a bus with complete assurance, for she was becom- 
ing practised in these things now, and, having collected her 
pitifully small belongings, set forth in the direction of Chelsea. 


CHAPTER XVII 


Georgie was immensely pleased with her new surroundings. 
She liked Mrs. Sandys’s flat, and its charm was doubly intensi- 
fied by contrast with her former wretchedness. It was clean, 
bright, and compact, and she wandered from room to room 
looking at the pictures and thinking that she would be very 
happy. Her demands upon life had shrunk, and she knew now 
that to have a clean room and sufficient food to eat was in 
itself a cause for great thankfulness. She had been through 
a process of milling which left her shorn of many illusions, and 
she tried not to think of the last two months, but to keep the 
devils at bay. Cold, ugly devils which had frightened her and 
stolen her courage. 

Loneliness, hunger and desolation had dogged her faithfully, 
and her former pride in herself and a belief that she could 
conquer circumstances had died slowly into despair. She had 
written to Lousada from the hostel, which was her last stage 
in the dreary path of misery, and received no answer, so she 
guessed he must be away. You could not think that he had 
forgotten a friend, and Georgie was always just. It was sheer 
bad luck, for there was no one else to turn to, and she awaited 
an answer with ever-deepening disappointment. When she 
wrote she had asked him to send his reply to the stationer’s 
shop where her father’s letters were addressed, and avoided 
any explanation of what had happened, for there was a deep 
strain of reserve in Georgie, and it cost her a struggle to 
allude to Clint. Even in her letters to Dada she dealt in gener- 
alities and wrote of London with enthusiasm, saying that for 
the present it was to be her home. 

Dada “never noticed,” and that was a blessing. But, oh, those 
months! They had cost her so much in vitality, and when at 
last she accepted the idea of becoming a servant, it hurt some- 
how, because of Dada and what he would have felt had he 
known. They would all be shocked and aghast, and Milson, 
what would Milson have said, and Miss White? Miss White 
had a tremendous idea about what was due to social status, and 

173 


174 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


to think that Georgie was “in service” would nearly kill her on 
the spot. But none of them knew anything about life; that 
was the trouble. If they did, they wouldn’t look so calm and 
happy. 

Life was no easy game, but a desperate hand-to-hand en- 
counter in which, unless you had a settled income, you came 
off very wretchedly indeed. You must have money or experi- 
ence, and if you had neither it was like sliding into a black 
whirlpool. She contrasted her present self with the old Georgie, 
and wondered how she had ever been so innocent and foolish, 
and why she had believed in herself. As she went, she had 
received knock after knock at her self-esteem, and every one 
had humbled her. In the hostel they suspected her of bad 
ways, and though they had been kind, it was a strange kindness. 
The ladies whom she had interviewed at the registry office 
were curt and brief, and seemed to consider that she looked all 
wrong. She was under open suspicion again when she said she 
had never been out in service, and, in any case, no one cared 
whether she sank or swam. Yet they had humbled her, and re- 
duced her sorely in her own eyes, until she was crushed to 
earth by the passing of the heavy wheels. 

Mrs. Sandy s had been the first to say a kindly word to her, 
and Georgie felt that the devotion of a lifetime could not 
suffice to show her gratitude. She thought her very beautiful 
and saintly, and when she had made a tour of the flat she was 
immensely impressed by the learning of her new employer. 
Mrs. Sandys read such deep books, the kind of literature which 
Georgie associated in her mind with men with big bald heads 
and tremendous brains. It would be wonderful to wait upon 
such a talented lady; and then, she had been kind. 

She looked round the tiny bedroom where she was to sleep, 
and began to put it in order. There was a sepia copy of 
Burne-Jones’s “Golden Stairs” over the bed, and she studied the 
faces of the girls who gazed out at her, wondering whether any 
of them had ever really tasted life. She decided that they had 
not, or they could not have looked so bland and expectant, and 
she put on a cap which she had bought for a few pence, and 
was tremendously entertained by the sight of her own face in 
the small mirror on the wall. 

She must learn to say “M’am,” and remember not to sit 
down in the drawing-room, and she must train herself to an- 
nounce guests. Having got the bedroom into order, she began 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 175 

to rehearse her duties, ushering imaginary visitors into the 
sitting-room, and laying the table with close and careful atten- 
tion to detail. Her predecessor had not troubled to tidy up, 
and it was afternoon before the kitchen was thoroughly neat 
again. The man from the grocer’s shop came for orders, and 
she gave him a list which surprised him. He seemed inclined 
to talk, and said that Miss Pratt had no words bad enough for 
Mrs. Sandys. 

“Then I think she might have got off worse,” Georgie said, 
taking up the cudgels for her mistress as she leaned on the 
door. “What’s up with all the girls these times ?” 

The young man looked at her and smiled; he invited her to 
come to the pictures, and said that he was rather a quiet fellow*, 
but that a little entertainment now and then did no harm to 
anyone. 

“I’ve my work to do,” Georgie said awkwardly, “and I don’t 
go out.” 

“Think it over,” he remarked, and, slipping his notebook 
into his pocket, he went away. 

The day wore on, and Georgie was still busy. She had made 
tea for herself and eaten some odd-looking bread, with marga- 
rine, and her sense of delight grew deeper. It was wonderful 
to sit before the kitchen fire and feel that there was something 
to do through the long, dead hours of the day. Life had 
grown so empty, and she had come to hate the streets. She 
forgot that she was lonely and that she had once been so happy, 
because at least she was at rest again, and the searing anxiety 
had passed. 

The flickering light made her feel dreamy, and she thought 
of how once she and Clint had lighted the drawing-room fire 
at the rectory together and had great fun over it. One of the 
worse parts of disillusion is that it not only robs the present, 
but steals from the past as well, and she could not recall him 
now, without the later memories intervening to destroy the 
image. He had been hers, but he was hers no longer, neither 
did she now belong to him, though she was still his wife. 

One of her most marked attributes was an appreciation of 
small mercies, and Georgie was not bereft of her gratitude by 
the forces which had stolen so much else. She had been a 
homeless, penniless waif yesterday, and now she had shelter and 
food. Georgie smiled as she thought of the grocer’s man, and 
thought him “a nice kind of lad.” Nor did it trouble her that 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


176 

he had failed to discern anything different in her to others who 
opened the door to him. She conld not walk out with him or let 
him take her to the pictures, but there was something in his 
pale face that put her in mind of poor Finney, and she wished 
to be gentle in her refusal. Clint would have stormed and 
raged at the bare idea of his wife receiving such an invitation, 
but Clint, with much else, was of the dead past, for which there 
was no resurrection. 

Her thoughts led her to a vague analysis of life, which was 
new to her, for Georgie usually accepted what she had been told 
to accept, without criticism. Who people were had mattered 
very much indeed in Ireland and in England. At home she 
had suffered a good deal from the contemptuous attitude of the 
county. A clergyman’s daughter was accepted on half-terms, 
as it were, ranking well below the landowners who were con- 
scious of their subscriptions to the “Sustentation Fund.” So 
long as they were subscribers it made them feel immensely su- 
perior. She recollected the Sustentation Fund with a smile. 
Whenever Dada had any disagreement with a parishioner, there 
was the inevitable threat of the withdrawal of support, from 
ten shillings to twenty pounds. What a worry “th’ old Sus- 
tentation Fund” had always been. It seemed to give the parish 
unlimited rights, and whenever they disliked something Mr. 
Desmond said in a sermon, they resorted to this useful argu- 
ment. They usually beat Dada in the end, because he had a 
nervous, quiet disposition and avoided conflict. She shook 
her head as she considered the subject. Even in Ireland, or 
perhaps more especially in Ireland than anywhere, it mat- 
tered who you were. If you were a Burke of Farran Court, a 
Sheridan of Castle Coombe, or one of the Fitzgibbons of Tem- 
pleanner, you might be as dull, untidy or uncultured as you 
pleased ; it did not matter. You were above the law. In Eng- 
land it became more a question of money, and birth was of less 
account, but, again, who you were was far more important than 
what you were. 

Ft came upon Georgie as a surprise when she discovered 
that this was an ancient lie, thrust upon the world by a strong 
minority. Character was the only real standard, and brains, 
courtesy and comprehension were not the sole property of the 
governing classes. She thought of Kate Love, who had 
mothered her since she could remember anything, and felt that 
it only showed how stupid people were to call such as she ‘‘corn- 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


177 

mon.” The word had often been applied to Georgie herself. 
Lady Dun called her “hopelessly common,” and so did Mrs. 
Clint. It was a great reproach, because she had learnt her 
accent from Kate; as though the way in which you pronounced 
words made all the difference. It was the standard of the 
“who’s,” or one of their standards, and they formed their side- 
ways judgment by it, or by the fact that one hadn’t been born 
at Templeanner, or one of the “places” large or small, in the 
United Kingdom. 

Clint had lectured her times and times again on the awful 
results of social blunders. It was far worse to break one of 
the caste rules than to carry on an intrigue or get into debt. 
Georgie yawned and looked affectionately round Mrs. Sandys’s 
kitchen. 

Mrs. Sandys held different views on these subjects; she had 
met Georgie with real kindness and spoke to her as an equal. 
In some way she understood this queer puzzle of equality, and 
was ready to throw a bridge across the gulf. 

At that very moment Mrs. Sandys was having tea at her 
club, with a group of rather ferociously earnest thinkers, and 
as they compared notes on the business of the day, she ex- 
plained that she was once more in domestic difficulties. 

“I have taken a girl who has no character,” she said. “Very 
unwise of me, but the kind of thing I do.” 

“Dearest, you are always so recklessly kind,” Miss Esme 
Brash replied, struggling with her veil, which she swallowed 
when she spoke, and which got into her tea and tied itself into 
knots in her hair. “I never find it answers. Of course I am 
G. E. through and through; and the Girls’ Friendly won’t touch 
a questionable case. We expelled six at our meeting to-day.” 

“The G. F.’s are terribly hard,” Mrs. Sandys replied. “I 
once belonged, but that was ages ago.” 

Mrs. Clint, who was sitting at the same table, mountainous 
and impressive, shook her head. She was “G. F. S.” and 
Mothers’ Union, and had no opinion of Mrs. Sandys, but they 
were fellow members of the Porch Club, which was composed 
of social workers of all kinds. 

“You don’t know these young people,” she said, with an arch 
glance at Miss Brash, her “right hand.” “I do and for that 
reason I maintain discipline. If you have taken a girl of bad 
character into your flat, you will regret it.” 

Mrs. Sandys flushed faintly. “Oh, you entirely misunder- 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


178 

stand. I imagine it to be a case of seduction, and the girl 
seems both cheerful and attractive. She is Irish.” 

Mrs. Clint drew a deep breath. “Then you have my sincere 
sympathy,” she said firmly, “if in addition to her unfortunate 
career she is also Irish.” 

“But the G. F. S. girl I tried was a dreadful person,” Mrs. 
Sandys objected. “You have really no monopoly of the vir- 
tues, dear Mrs. Clint.” 

“Darling,” Miss Brash broke in, “you are too kind. I took 
one of your girls after she had left you, and she simply did 
what she liked — just whatever she liked. Wouldn’t wash my 
comb, either, or brush my skirt.” 

Poor Miss Brash looked as though no one ever brushed her, 
and she was incapable of doing anything for herself; but the 
little circle murmured in sympathy, and Mrs. Sandys got up. 

“I ought to be getting back,” she said. “I have to run out 
again for a general meeting of the Union of Rights at eight- 
thirty. Only a drawing-room meeting, with dear Frederick 
Loftus in the chair. He is always a draw, and we expect about 
fifty.” 

“Remember that I have warned you,” Mrs. Clint said with 
emphasis. 

“What news of your son and daughter?” Mrs. Sandys asked, 
tying a scarf round her neck. She had a vague idea that 
Eustace, his wife and Eleanor were hopelessly worldly, but 
•she had not seen them for years. Mrs. Clint looked very black 
indeed as she replied to the question. 

“They are both very well,” she said in a repressed voice. 
“Yes, yes, quite well, thank you.” 

Miss Brash had no tact, looked horribly confused and dropped 
lier handkerchief, nearly upsetting the table in her efforts to 
recapture it. “I always say,” she remarked in her high, nasal 
tones, “that Eustace is the handsomest man in London.” 

Mrs. Sandys looked round the large, dark room, where the 
■electric light seemed to be absorbed by the atmosphere. She 
had been one of the original founders of the club, and admired 
the intense masculinity of the smoking-room, where all the 
members usually sat, though there was a large and empty draw- 
ing-room in another part of the building. The chairs and 
sofas were covered in wear-worn leather, and rows of small 
tables made centres where women, most of them elderly, sat 
and drank tea and smoked Virginian cigarettes in long holders. 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


179 

Tor a moment she wondered why it was that the world seemed 
to be full of elderly people who obviously did not care what 
they looked like. It troubled her a little, and then she reflected 
that pretty women who wore fashionable clothes were usually 
of no use in the world’s work; they were haunted by the fear 
of looking old, and thinkers never preserved their youth very 
long. All the rugged, earnest or smug faces around her were 
the faces of workers, though some of them were annoyingly 
futile, while others were fanatics ; strong “pros” or “antis*” each 
with a mission which was to bring in the millennium. Mrs. 
Sandy s herself had worked through circle after circle of en- 
thusiasm, and was now becoming an individualist. 

She stayed a moment longer while Mrs. Clint spoke affection- 
ately of a philanthropic duchess; Miss Brash played her court 
card in the shape of a princess, and Mrs. Sandys added the 
name of a countess with socialistic leanings. 

“I like to feel,” Mrs. Clint said, “that our aristocracy are 
taking their share. How splendidly they always come to the 
front.” 

“Whenever there is a front,” Miss Brash added enthusiasti- 
cally, “and it is true that noblesse oblige 

“I am a Socialist,” Mrs. Sandys said in her delicate, sensitive 
voice. 

“Don’t forget that I have warned you about that girl,” Mrs. 
Clint said formidably as Mrs. Sandys turned to go, and then 
she entered into a conversation with Miss Brash, who always 
agreed with her. 

Mrs. Sandys made her way back to Chelsea in a bus, accom- 
panied by the usual resigned crowd of people, who looked per- 
sistently sad and depressed. She was slightly affected by the 
pessimism of Mrs. Clint, and hurried along the pavement when 
she got out of the bus and turned down a side street towards 
her block of flats. The time which intervened since she en- 
gaged Miss Desmond had rather dulled her impressions, and she 
wondered whether people like Mrs. Clint were usually right in 
the long run. The prophecies of those who disbelieved in human 
nature had a way of coming true, and it was discouraging to 
reflect upon this. Perhaps she would find the flat rifled, her 
plated spoons and the jam-glass mounted in silver gone, and 
her best hat with them. If so, she decided that she would never 
again undertake to employ a girl who brought no references. 

She turned the key in the door with a feeling of anxiety* 


i8o 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


but as she entered the ball she became reassured once more. 
Georgie was in the kitchen, singing to herself in a queer, husky- 
voice, buoyant with great happiness, and the place looked tidier 
and cleaner than it had done during the reign of Miss Pratt. 

“I hope you get on all right?” Mrs. Sandys asked, sinking 
into a basket-chair. “I have to be off again at once, so just 
make me a cup of cocoa.” 

“Gracious!” Georgie stood looking at her with admiring 
eyes ; “but you do work hard. I never saw the like of it, Mrs. 
Sandys. What is it you’re all doing?” She fetched the tray 
and filled the kettle as she spoke. 

“Trying to make the world a better place,” Mrs. Sandys re- 
plied. Sh6 was quite certain now that she liked Georgie. 

“It’s awfully good of you,” Georgie said with conviction. 

“Oh, no; it’s only what every one should do. We want a 
better state of things, and I have given up my life to the 
work.” 

“Then it’s a pity there’s not more like you,” Georgie replied, 
and she thought of her own idle, pleasant days at home and 
the complete indifference of the people who had come to The 
Gleanings. “My notion is, that the higher you get the less 
any one cares. It would surprise you how little the most of 
them mind.” 

“Not all ” Mrs. Sandys said. “I have a very great friend who 
is a viscountess, and she is tremendously thorough. In fact, 
on one committee we have two countesses. I of course am a 
Socialist.” 

“I don’t reely like th’ aristocracy.” Georgie took down a cup 
and put it on the tray; she did not notice the stare of half- 
amused surprise on Mrs. Sandys’s face. 

“You must not believe all you hear from other domestic help- 
ers,” Mrs. Sandys remarked. “I will drink my cocoa in here, 
Miss Desmond. Let me warn you against jumping to con- 
clusions. As a Socialist, you may be sure that I am quite 
unprejudiced.” 

“And what are you going to do for the whole of us to-night ?” 
Georgie asked with interest. “I think London’s an awf’ly bad 
place” — her face looked tragic as she spoke — “and here in Eng- 
land people are fearfully selfish. Would you be able to cure 
them of that, now? Dada used to say that the world was so 
censorious, and only lately I’ve grown to know how true it is.” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 181 

She sighed and shook her head. “But if Dada knew one quarter 
of what goes on, he’d be wild about it.” 

“All this interests me very much,” Mrs. Sandys said, sipping 
her cocoa. “I had no idea that it was the case.” She flushed 
and became nervous. “I would like you to regard me as a friend, 
a real friend, Miss Desmond, and if you wish to confide your 
trouble in me, you need not be in the least afraid that I shall 
be shocked.” 

“You’re very kind,” Georgie said guardedly, “awf’ly kind, but 
I never knew troubles mended by talk.” 

Mrs. Sandys felt hurt, but she hid her feelings, thinking that 
she had been too precipitate. “When we know each other 
better,” she said, “and if you need advice. You look very young, 
but I am glad to see how fond you appear to be of your father.” 

“Dada’s a lamb,” Georgia said with a shining smile. 

“Would you like me to write to him?” Mrs. Sandys asked. 
She had taken off her hat, and looked more than ever like a 
Madonna in modern clothing. 

Georgie moved uncomfortably, and shook her head. “He 
doesn’t know I’m in service,” she said, looking down at the fire, 
“and I’d rather he’d not know.” 

“But he knows you are in London?” 

“Oh, yes, of course he knows that.” 

“And why you left home?” 

Georgie met Mrs. Sandys’s look with candid eyes and a curi- 
ous smile. “He knows all about that,” she said unhesitatingly. 

“I hope he is not troubled about it?” Mrs. Sandys persisted. 
She had a morbid desire to know the facts, and Georgie was 
baffling in her apparent lack of what Mrs. Clint would have 
described as “a sense of sin.” 

“Why would he be?” Georgie said, struggling in the face of 
what she felt to be an inquisitive and unreasonable desire on 
the part of Mrs. Sandys to force her to speak of her private 
affairs. “There wasn’t anything to worry over. The reason I 
had to get work was on account of something quite different. 
Dada knows nothing at all of it, and I’d not worry him; he 
has worries enough without. Please don’t be vexed with me, 
Mrs. Sandys, for you’re very kind, and I would dearly like 
to explain, only . . . well, it’s private, and I’d have to mention 
names and all that, which I won’t do.” 

“You need mention no names,” Mrs. Sandys replied. “I 
would like to help you. You know I took you on trust.” 


182 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


“For all that, I can’t speak.” Georgie shut her mouth firmly. 
“Not a soul in this world knows.” 

Mrs. Sandy s looked at the kitchen clock, and sprang to her 
feet, taking up her hat and exclaiming at the lateness of the 
hour. “I shall miss the lecture,” she said, “and only be in 
time for the discussion. Leave a glass of milk on the table for 
me and some biscuits.” 

“Then you won’t get so much done, after all,” Georgie said 
in tones of some disappointment. 

“We have to be patient,” Mrs. Sandys smiled. “What we aim 
at is to uplift the social conscience and break down class bar- 
riers. It takes time.” 

“Indeed, yes,” Georgie replied, visibly impressed. 

“Our idea is to build a better Britain,” she went on hurriedly. 
“Oh, where is my bag ? I left it at the registry office.” 

“I have it.” Georgie disappeared down the passage. “I had 
to borrow two-and-six, Mrs. Sandys. Will you deduct it from 
my wages?” 

Mrs. Sandys looked astonished and taken ahack. “I never 
advance money,” she said in a disturbed tone. “Never; still, 
for once, I will break my rule. Two-and-six, you said?” 

“I’m very sorry.” Georgie was penitent. “But I was — I 
didn’t have any change, and I never thought you’d be put 
out.” 

Mrs. Sandys recovered herself, and glanced at a little sheet 
of pencil notes she had made, reading them over rapidly : “The 
elimination of preventible poverty” — she always found that 
alliteration sounded well on a platform or in debate — “the 
building of a better Britain.” She then emptied the bag and 
counted the contents, which she found to be correct, minus half- 
a-crown, and once again she exclaimed at the lateness of the 
hour. Frederick Loftus will be so grieved,” she explained, 
evidently expecting Georgie to know the name of the elderly 
sere. “But, try as one can, it is impossible to get everything 
done.” 

“Indeed, yes,” Georgie agreed. 

“Later on,” Mrs. Sandys said from the door, “you will have 
to come and listen when I have speakers here, and take your 
share in the making of the new world.” 

“Yes, indeed,” Georgie said, feeling slightly breathless. 

“You must rally to the call.” Mrs. Sandys wa3 outside the 
kitchen. “I always make a point of including my domestic 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 183 

helpers in my own work. Don’t forget the glass of milk and 
two biscuits ; there were six in the tin this morning.” 

And though Georgie cleared away Mrs. Sandys’s supper, 
feeling immensely impressed, she could not help thinking that 
her mistress “noticed things” rather wonderfully for a woman 
who had the reconstruction of the world in hand. 

There were no novels, none at least of the kind she under- 
stood, in Mrs. Sandys’s bookshelves, for any which found a 
place in the flat seemed to be more like social treatises, and 
had no story in their pages, so that she went to bed rather in 
the condition of a pigeon who has had a meal of shot, mistaking 
it for Indian corn. Words such as “co-operation,” “civics,” 
“citizenship,” “social conscience,” “municipal authorities” 
floated through her brain, and she felt again that Mrs. Sandys 
was “wonderful,” which was the word chosen by Mrs. Sandys’s 
own friends when they described her; she was a “wonderful 
woman.” At l&st Georgie slept, and in her dreams she wan- 
dered through the garden at the rectory, where life seemed 
simpler once again. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


After a time Georgie became more or less acclimatised in ber 
new surroundings. Her liking for Mrs. Sandys grew percep- 
tibly, and she understood that her employer was a woman who 
really did try to arrive at something definite. She was inclined 
to place Mrs. Sandys on a pedestal, and prepared to offer her 
sincere worship; and Georgie was hurt and distressed far more 
on Mrs. Sandy s’s account than her own, when there were all 
too obvious discrepancies between her professions and her 
practice. 

She was close to meanness about money, though she insisted 
that it was “dross,” and she had an eye like a lynx for the 
smallest suggestion of waste in the kitchen. This she ac- 
counted for by saying that in a world where so many were 
starving it was almost a crime to have enough to eat. She 
persuaded Georgie to become a vegetarian after the first week, 
and was very firm indeed as to the quantity of tea she should 
drink. Georgie’s Irish propensity for tea-drinking distressed 
her, and she quoted statistics, and spoke of “the Irish tea 
face.” Thus the scantiness of groceries and of “fat foods 
and grease,” as Mrs. Sandys termed bacon and butter, was 
accounted for by high principles, and Georgie was assured that 
the reason was a noble one. 

Her perpetual desire to know Georgie’s own story arose out 
of personal interest in the girl, and Georgie found it becoming 
difficult to evade her questions. Mrs. Sandys did not seem to 
recognise any right of reserve, and was hurt by her servant’s 
steady refusal to open her heart. She was hopelessly unpunc- 
tual as to hours, and made work for Georgie through a complete 
lack of consideration which was never meant. She was “busied 
with much serving,” and explained to Georgie that she, in her 
humble sphere, was also taking part in a great forward move- 
ment. 

Georgie had formerly heard very little of “movements,” as 
such, other than political. There had been missionary meetings' 
in the school house at home which she attended, and mission- 

184 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


185 

aries had come at intervals to the rectory to deliver lectures 
to the Protestants of Ardclare; but they dealt with the con- 
version of natives, and were popularised by the addition of 
magic-lantern slides. In Ireland no one dreamed of social 
movements, and the religious questions of the country seemed 
to prohibit such activities. The very word “league” called up 
memories of bands playing national airs and cheering crowds, 
baton charges by the police, and much drinking of porter; 
something entirely different to the well-dressed and orderly- 
little gatherings that assembled to air their views in lecture- 
rooms and halls in London. 

It appeared very strange to Georgie once she discovered that 
England was full of leagues, and Mrs. Sandys sat upon her 
quite heavily when she explained that she knew Father 
O’Doherty, who had been in trouble with the police on account 
of an ancient connection with the Land League. 

“We are non-party,” she said at once. “There is nothing so 
obstructive as party politics. We are non-sectarian.” 

Ireland did not trouble about social reform, and, as far as 
Georgie knew, only the turning of Mohammedans and Hindus 
into Irish Protestants was of real importance. People gave 
half-crowns to that end, and there were sales of work, also 
held in the school house, the profits of which went to the same 
cause. 

Mrs. Francis Dykes was interested in “Protestant orphans,” 
and as for social organisation, “non-political and non-sec- 
tarian,” the very idea was staggering. 

During her short married life at The Gleanings, Georgie 
had come right away from any form of religious or social effort 
of any kind. Nell had a fine contempt for any class but her 
own, and seemed to regard the masses as a careless observer 
regards monkeys at the Zoo. Public schools produced gentle- 
men and sportsmen, and any one who had not been so blessed 
as to start life with these advantages could logically be neither 
one nor the other. Clint hated having to subscribe to any 
charities, and spoke of “pauperising the poor.” It was hi3 
reason for stubborn refusal when asked for money, and he also 
said it was “un-English.” 

Regarded from the point of view of The Gleanings, life was 
a place where you had as good a time as you could, where you 
spent fortunes on food, clothes and motors, and declined to 
believe that anything was wrong with the rest of the world. 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


1 86 

Anyone who did think so was a “crank,” or an “agitator,” and 
could be serenely disregarded. The poor were the duty of the 
State, in some vague way, and of the Church. Were there not 
workhouses and reformatories for them all? And what more 
did they want? There were also prisons; and the upkeep of 
these establishments came out of the pockets of Clint and his 
class. They paid for Board Schools and outdoor relief, as well 
as the old-age pensions, and the general feeling was that already 
they gave far too liberally. Georgie had heard them talk like 
this when some one of a more serious turn of mind had been 
at the house; and the impression was that they were all hardly 
treated and over-taxed already. 

They belonged to no league of any kind, but now and then 
they attended great charity balls or matinees. You could in- 
duce them to do something when they understood that it 
wouldn’t be dull. Nell would pay thirty guineas for a dress, 
but when the clergyman called and asked for a donation for 
the waifs and strays, she very reluctantly parted with a ten 
shilling note, and Clint declined to give even as much, and 
improved the occasion by arguing that he had already been 
taxed to an extent which reduced him to penury. “You can’t 
have it both ways,” he said, though when Georgie asked him 
later how much he had given in charity before the taxes grew 
to such an alarming figure, he was vague in his reply. 

While she had struggled in the awful outer darkness of deso- 
lation, Georgie had begun to feel dimly that “down and under” 
was a bad place, and especially bad, because not only money, 
but sympathy was absent. There were plenty of times when 
she would have valued a kind word far more than a gift of 
money, and she got neither. 

In Ireland the beggars were on terms of friendship even with 
the aristocracy, and their life was by no means a bad one. 
People welcomed them, and they were a cheerful, nomadic class, 
who got quite a lot of entertainment along the roads. They 
told stories and sang songs, or carried the news with them if 
they were of the peripatetic school, and the locally established 
beggars collected what they called “the rent” from house to 
house, and were very seldom refused assistance. 

In the great whirlpool of London, Georgie learnt something 
of the other side of life. People were rude in manner, sharp 
of speech and unkind once they suspected you of empty pockets, 
and dread had pursued her. She could not let her mind dwell 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 187 

upon these weeks, and she tried to forget them. After all that, 
she now discovered a new world full of new people. 

For the first time in her life she was in contact with a large 
group of men and women who wanted reforms, and she sat 
perplexed and bewildered amid so much philanthropy; pushed 
and hustled, as it were, from one question to another, and 
earnestly trying to listen to a number of voices all speaking at 
once. Kind, good voices, but slightly confusing to the un- 
trained consciousness. 

Georgie had rigid ideas as to right and wrong, and it startled 
her to discover that she must now realise that these things are 
all a question of circumstances. She sat alone and wondered 
until her head ached. You could work the whole problem back 
until you pinned the responsibility firmly to the coat of Clint 
and the other Clints, and King George; but though this was 
becoming clear to her, she felt that it had all been simpler 
when you believed that God had something, to say to it, and 
that life was not what mattered, but just to live it decently in 
spite of the odds. 

Mrs. Sandys was non-sectarian. She had adopted in turn 
almost every fashionable form of belief that had been in the 
world, so that she knew the futility of creeds and churches. 
She was now, so one of her friends said, “so clever that she was 
an atheist/’ and though she smiled indulgently when Georgie 
said that she must go to church, and that she wished to find a 
place of worship which was not like “a Catholic chapel,” she 
made no use of her own conviction of philosophic doubt to 
shatter Georgie’s illusions. 

The more Mrs. Sandys considered the question of her maid, 
the more she perplexed her. She usually did consider her for 
about five minutes at least each day, and she came to know, 
greatly to her astonishment, that Georgie was a Puritan. It 
shocked Mrs. Sandys profoundly, because she regarded it as 
hopelessly narrow-minded, and the girl should have learnt 
something through her own mistake. Georgie had blushed 
furiously when Mrs. Sandys spoke one day of “prostitutes,” 
and said that they were much to be pitied. 

“Indeed, I’d be ashamed to think of them,” she replied. 
“Decent girls have self-respect,” and she seemed to be con- 
vinced that women, and not men, were to blame. Mrs. Sandys 
grew heated in the argument. She quoted case after case to 
crush Georgie’s opposition, and the idea that such a soul was 


i88 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


also among the prophets aggravated her. “You should have 
tremendous sympathy,” she said pointedly, “and yet you are 
full of prejudice.” 

“Men are very weak and foolish,” Georgie said, her face 
troubled, “and I’d not pardon a man. Don’t think I’m laying 
down the law, Mrs. Sandy s. But for all that, it’s true that no 
decent girl would go tempt a fellow. Those who do haven’f a 
nice nature.” 

“Even if they are driven to it by starvation? Even if some 
wretched creature has betrayed them ?” 

“There was never a thing of the kind in our place,” Georgie 
said. “That is, among the Protestants, and if it happened 
among the Catholics, Fawther Coffy raised such a scene that 
the world rang with it. There was trouble once through a 

chauffeur up at ” she stopped and faltered — “a big house 

near my home, and though he was a Protestant, Eawther Coffy 
turned him and made him get married. They went away to 
America after. Dada was awfully vexed, because he didn’t like 
Crackenthrop being turned, but he said the principle was quite 
right, but it gives you an idea of how things are over there.” 

“To marry the unfortunate girl to a blackguard hardly 
seems a solution,” Mrs. Sandys said in a voice of scorn; “but 
once you get priests and clergymen into any problem it always 
means disaster.” 

Georgie shook her head. Bad girls were bad girls, and she 
could not accept any excuse for them. 

Mrs. Sandys reflected over their conversation later. She 
realised now that Georgie’s father actually was some kind of 
clergyman, and, like Lady Duncarrig, she regarded her as 
hopelessly unsuitable. She smoked cigarettes, for Mrs. Sandys 
had smelt out that fact, and Georgie admitted it when asked. 
According to her principles, Mrs. Sandys had to permit this, 
but her deeper instincts revolted. Georgie seemed to have no 
real culture which one might look for in a parson’s daughter, 
but she had certainly been brought up on church teaching. 
How she had erred and gone astray, or who the man could be, 
Mrs. Sandys could not guess. 

She overheard the conversation with the messengers, and at 
times it appeared to her that Georgie had a queer freedom of 
speech. She was not stiff or aloof, but at the same time she 
could not be accused of being forward, and when, at the end 
of six weeks, the young man who came for orders from the 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


189 

grocer’s made a definite proposal of marriage in Mrs. Sandys’s 
hearing, for the flat was small and his voice carried, she was 
struck by the gentleness with which Georgie refused his offer. 

“I think a decent man’s love is a very nice kind of a thing,” 
she said in reply, “and I’m sorry, but it’s no use.” 

The grocer’s assistant urged that perhaps she considered her- 
self above him, and he spoke of relations in a better class than 
his own. Furthermore, he was only coming for orders because 
she was in the flat, as he was a trusted assistant, and his first 
visit had been an accident owing to the illness of the mes- 
senger. 

“You’re awfully foolish,” Georgie said. “I’m not so stupid, 
Mr. Laddy. If I cared about you or could marry you. I’d not 
mind if you came from the coal-hole, but I can’t, and, remem- 
ber there’s as good fish in the sea as ever old Michael Hennesy 
pulled out of it in Youghal Harbour.” 

Georgie had been rather subdued and depressed for some 
days after the event, and Mr. Laddy came no more for orders 
from the grocery store. 

Romance was one of the experiences which had encroached 
very seldom into Mrs. Sandys’s life. Her group were not 
romantic, though many of them firmly believed in free love, 
and she was indistinctly aware that Georgie was one of those 
beings who carried a trailing cloud of rainbow colour around 
her. She began to alter her original theory, and felt that 
Georgie must be the victim of a love affair, possibly without 
having crossed the boundary, since the girl was so amazingly 
respectable, and for that reason had left her home. She had 
managed to meet a man, possibly of superior rank, who had 
trifled with her affections. As an alternative explanation of 
Georgie, it lacked drama and was ridiculously early Victorian; 
but then, Georgie was far behind the times, and it might be the 
case. She felt quite uncomfortable when she thought of how 
often she nearly put her foot in the past, for she became slightly 
sensitive about Georgie’s strong opinions, and her too drastic 
standards of moral conduct. An innocent love affair would 
account for a great deal, and Mrs. Sandys rather reluctantly 
absolved Georgie from a mere exciting if sinful experience of 
life. 

She received letters from Dada at stated intervals, and 
collected them from the stationer’s shop at the Sloane Square 
end of King’s Road, and occasional short scribbles from Miss 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


190 

White. They were her chief joy, and she read them over and 
over again, filling in the bits which were left out and treasuring 
every scrap of news they brought to her. They told her little 
enough, but that little was precious. 

She used to picture the quiet life as she poured over Dada’s 
letters or deciphered Miss White’s hieroglyphics, making out 
coherent sentences with difficulty, and in return she began to 
develop a perfectly wonderful gift for fluent lying with her 
pen. The reports she wrote to Dada were enough to content 
the most ambitious father who ever lived, and she described 
entertainments which she selected from the paper; plays which 
she had never seen and would never see, and alluded to im- 
portant people whose names she took at random from lists of 
presidents and vice-presidents on the committees whose reports 
were to be seen on all sides of her in the flat. She also wrote 
of league activities and quoted Mrs. Sandy s. 

The real danger to Dada’s peace of mind lay through the 
Duns getting to know that she had left Eustace, and repeating 
it in Ardclare. Lady Dun’s friendship with Miss White was 
a menace, and Miss White frequently said that Lady Dun had 
no secrets from her, so that it was a huge relief to Georgie’s 
mind when Mr. Desmond told her the eldest Duncarrig daugh- 
ter had fallen ill, and the whole family gone abroad. Georgie 
knew that Lady Duncarrig’s friendship did not extend to paper, 
and that so long as wide seas roared between her and Miss White 
she could regard herself as safe. 

She did not look ahead, for there is much wisdom at times 
in short views of life, and Georgie was growing wise. Life 
had taught her that it is a great thing to have a roof, a moder- 
ately comfortable bed, and regular meals; she was young, 
healthy and strong, and the work she did was little more than 
a new form of exercise. She was proud of it, too, for she was 
on her own, and Mrs. Sandys, beyond inquisitional examinations 
carried out after Georgie was in bed, did not interfere. The 
flat kitchen was gay, and Mrs. Sandys presented her with a copy 
of a Futurist painting which Georgie pinned against the wall 
upside down, and appreciated for its vigorous colour. There 
were other decorations which had once been in Mrs. Sandys’s 
bedroom and were slowly working towards the dustbin ; a glazed 
copy of “Come, Holy Ghost,” a picture of St. Theresa, and 
framed sentiments culled from great thinkers of various groups. 
All these made the room look very unlike Georgie’s own idea of 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


191 

a kitchen, and Mrs. Sandys felt that at last she had found a girl 
who had a sense of the true beauty of work, but, for all this, 
she still paid her five shillings a week less than she had given 
to the slapdash and independent Miss Pratt. 

Georgie often wondered where Lousada was, and if he had 
forgotten her. It would be a bit of fun to see him again, and 
she felt the need for some relief from the tyranny of new 
ideas. At length, after a day during which she had begun by 
burning a saucepan and ended by listening to statistics, hurled 
at a few interested listeners by a lady policeman who talked 
of “gin faints” and described a house of ill-fame, she took out 
her writing materials and began a letter to Lousada. 

“I'd like very much if I could see you ," she wrote. “Any 
old time will do, as I am free most afternoons. I think the 
world's awful, don't you f I'd like to forget all about it, and 
pretend that it's not so bad. It usen't to be, in the days of 
yore , but the worst of doing a heap of good is that you get a 
kind of craving for giving people the shivers. I don't mean 
that I am up to the eyes in good works myself, but I'm in a 
job that gives me a chance to understand what the others are 
after , and I'm not the better of it yet." 

She addressed the letter and ran out with it to the post. 
“Could I have an afternoon off* to meet an old friend?” she 
asked Mrs. Sandys, who immediately grew interested. 

“A relation?” she asked. 

“No, only a friend. Some one I used to know at home.” 

Mrs. Sandys considered the question. “It might be better 
for you if I refused,” she said. “Are you quite sure it is wise. 
Miss Desmond?” 

“Why not?” Georgie giggled self-consciously. “I may as 
well tell that it’s a young man, but we’re only friends, no more, 
and he’s awfully nice.” 

Mrs. Sandys had an inspiration. “Ask him to tea in the 
kitchen,” she said, “and perhaps I might be in in time to meet 
him. I really think that would be best.” 

Georgie looked a little disappointed. She had hoped for a 
meeting at a restaurant where there was a band playing and 
you could look at the people, but she was naturally obedient. 
“Very well, so,” she said. “And another time, if he aska 


192 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


me out, wouldn’t it be all right for me to go? Of course, he 
mayn’t ask me, or he may be away, but if he did?” 

“Have him here first,” Mrs. Sandys said cautiously. It was 
odd to suspect Georgie of conduct which would be impossible 
to mention to her. 

Mrs. Sandys was a woman with a sense of responsibility, and 
she felt that she would be more than a match for the man if he 
were once again upon the track of Georgie, seeking to compass 
her downfall. 


CHAPTER XIX 


Lousada was a man with a number of acquaintances and not 
many friends. People knew who he was, and he was to be met 
at a variety of different houses, but though he was memorable 
he gave you only a little to go upon, and had a trick of vanish- 
ing just as you felt you had got something closer to his real 
self. That he was strong no one could doubt, and his quiet 
manner disguised the fact that he was not in reality a quiet 
man. In fact, a number of legends and myths had sprung up 
around him, and while one day he might be met in Piccadilly, 
he was even then perhaps on his way to an outpost in an East- 
ern wilderness. 

The truth was that Lousada was one of the homeless. We 
become entangled with relatives and are explained through 
somebody’s knowledge of what our fathers did before us, or 
by the conduct of our aunts and uncles ; but all this easy eluci- 
dation was avoided in the case of John Lousada. His head- 
quarters was the Foreign Office, and his public life lay there, 
in the sense that when he was in England he could be seen 
sitting at a table inside that gloomy building and he returned 
to dingy rooms in Lexham Gardens when the day’s work was 
done. 

He was old for his age, and his red hair and harsh-featured 
face appealed more to the intellectual than the softer side of 
his acquaintances. He cared absolutely nothing for public 
opinion, nor whether people loved or hated him, which is an 
unpardonable attitude in the eyes of society and nearly as 
unpopular as a habit of speaking the truth. Popularity was, 
however, the very last thing which Lousada desired and he got 
on quite well without it. Inquisitive people who wanted to 
know more than he intended they should, usually had a bad 
word for him, and in argument Lousada had a fierce and even 
intemperate fashion of speech. Fools suffered at his hands, and 
therefore he had many enemies. His indifference was part of 
him, and he left his surroundings as they were when he had 
first arrived, so that nothing in his rooms gave him away. 

193 


194 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


They were a featureless conglomeration of weary necessaries of 
life, which such rooms usually are, and had no trace of their 
owner’s strong personality. He might have been a man without 
country, relatives or tastes, and yet he was far more really 
alive than the others. He had been doing things all the time. 
That was why he knew so much about life. The world is very 
much divided into two classes; those who know that anything 
can happen, and these are the men and women of action; and 
those who believe that nothing unusual ever really happens, 
and these are the huge, eventless majority who have ample time 
to analyse their thoughts and feelings. 

With his tremendous vitality, he had begun with a desire 
to remove mountains, but at thirty-three he knew quite well 
that his faith was not sufficient for any such miraculous feat; 
yet he still flung his force against the mountains, and now and 
then had the satisfaction of creating a landslide. 

Women had played only a small part in his own drama, which 
was wild enough and fantastic enough to make any respectable 
listener think him a liar, had he chosen to recount even a few 
of his experiences, but he did not recount them; he pushed 
them behind him and hurried on to the next job without turn- 
ing to look back. He had been far too busy for the sick habit of 
introspection, and women had, somehow, been out of the picture 
also. 

As he saw them, women were a devouring element; either 
you wanted to be eaten up by them, because of the joy it af- 
forded, or you preferred to retain your self-mastery. That 
men were primarily responsible for the shortcomings of women 
Lousada admitted unhesitatingly. Women often lied out of 
their knowledge of the inability of men to bear the truth. 
Numbers of men preferred mental inferiority in a companion, 
and were charmed by mediocrity, for poverty of ideas is no 
crime, and may even be an asset. But Lousada discovered 
that the male mind was more to his own liking than the female. 

Any excursions he had made into the whispering, feminine 
world had ended badly, and as for marriage, the thought of it 
did not even present itself to him. So he was lonely and, at 
times, aware of the fact. He had, possibly, evaded the chains of 
roses partly owing to the gregarious nature of his life. The 
atlas was his playing ground, and he travelled from Tokio to 
New York and from New York to Madrid wrapped up in the 
mystery of special Government service. He was attached now 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


195 


to one section and now to another of the Foreign Office, and his 
restless activity drove him, as he said, like Satan, to walk 
up and down the earth. 

What first attracted him to Georgie Desmond was her atti- 
tude of steady determination as she sat behind the curtain in 
the big drawing-room at Ardclare, and looked out over the 
garden. He had a keen eye for what Pater describes as “the 
passionate gesture,” and at that moment he was up in arms 
against the surroundings in which he found himself. Clint’s 
attitude towards life, and his belief that the world was a special 
preserve for the upper classes angered Lousada, and so did the 
stringent Yictorianism of Lady Duncarrig. To him Ardclare 
was little better than a house of Rimmon, and he singled 
Georgie out as a queer little exception; some rather pathetic 
rebel whose consciousness was still half asleep. When he real- 
ised how the land lay between her and Clint, he was sorry for 
her, because he imagined her to be capable of reality. He felt 
that Clint was merely fooling and would certainly let the girl 
down, but in this he underestimated the blindness of Clint’s 
passion once it was awakened and also the real* power of 
Georgie’s unstudied charm. 

So far as he saw it, Georgie would be forsaken. He did not 
think very much about it at the time, as his mind was busy 
with other things, and the subsequent news of the marriage 
came to him long after the event, when he was sitting in the 
veranda of the Grand Bar Cafe in one of the narrow stifling 
streets of Damietta, his work having taken him to Lower Egypt. 
His mail had caught him up, and with it the English papers 
which he read with his elbows on a dirty table above the fly- 
haunted disorder and the hectic confusion of a native-thronged 
street, his eyes on the shimmering distances, the hard white 
roofs of Eastern houses, and avenues of acacias and mimosa 
trees, wildly sweet of perfume. 

He was surrounded by alien colours and sounds, and yet his 
inward eye looked out over the dark paths of the Ardclare 
garden, and he saw the low heaped clouds of a grey, Irish day ; 
he saw Georgie’s lifted face quite distinctly, and the appeal of 
her eyes, and then he remembered Clint. The Times informed 
him that Georgie and Clint were actually married, and this 
was the last thing he had expected. There had been some 
mention of Georgie during his stay at Ardclare and he dis- 
cerned the belittling touch. She was small and unimportant, 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


196 

but she troubled the minds of the great, and set up irritation. 
Now, in the face of all this, Clint had married her; Clint, who 
was unusually sensitive to public opinion, and this was the 
strangest part of all. 

Lousada watched the shining roof, in the distance, against 
a sky, blue, intense and passionately clear in colour, and though 
he did give Georgie the tribute of a passing thought, he had, 
it is true, not much time for her at that moment. 

Then he had forgotten all about Georgie until their accidental 
meeting in Oxford, and something fresh and bright in her 
caught his attention once more. He felt that she had developed 
a great deal and that there was strength as well as sincerity in 
her influence. He was interested again, and he thought of her 
frequently, because he was quite sure that before long she would 
have either to forsake her own gods or turn her back upon 
Eustace Clint. It was not a situation which admitted of com- 
promise, and soon or late Georgie would be smitten by the fierce 
necessity of choice. So it came as no special surprise to him 
to discover her again; this time alone and facing the conse- 
quences of her own decision. 

Urgent political affairs swept him off again to Europe, and 
for months he lost touch with England; then he reappeared 
and took up his quarters in his drab rooms, in the harsh grey 
and black of London. Where was she now? he wondered, and 
had she given in? Clint might have triumphed, or Georgie’s 
love for her father might have weakened her resistance. Any- 
thing might have happened in the time, and he thought a great 
deal of her, looking for her vaguely as he walked through the 
crowded streets. 

In the end he discovered that she had not gone back to Clint. 
He was attending a huge reception, and one of the first people 
he met as he made his way through the drawing-room, which 
was thronged to suffocation, was Lady Mayfield. She glittered 
and shone and Lousada felt that he had never seen anyone who 
looked better fed and cared for; as she saw him she made a 
gesture of astonished delight. Lousada attracted her varying 
fancy and always had done so; besides, he was an authentic 
personality. Every one knew who he was, and people pointed 
him out as a celebrity. 

Lady Mayfield smiled at him, and he responded. 

“Well, Ulysses,” she said, as they found a quiet comer. 
“What wave washed you up here?” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


197 

“It is a funny little coast,” lie replied, looking round him, 
“and rather crowded with beasts already.” 

“But you?” she said. “Mysterious person, where are you 
from ? I always feel as though your pockets were full of bombs. 
You know so much, or so they say.” 

“They always tell lies — like so many of us,” he remarked, 
looking demurely at his folded hands. “Is Clint here?” 

“Somewhere or other, if he wasn’t trampled to death on the 
staircase.” 

“And Mrs. Clint? How does she take to the life?” 

Lady Mayfield looked at him with her clear eyes, and fluttered 
the soft feathers of her fan. “There has been a little row 
there,” she said, with an appearance of candour. “Poor old 
Gee. You know I always liked her. She is hopelessly common 
and unpresentable, but there is something one likes, for all 
that.” 

“Ah, indeed?” Lousada’s voice did not sound interested. 

“She got her back up — I may as well tell you, though it’s 
kept dark, and she is said to be in Ireland with that old Dada 
of hers ; nursing him, you see, and not able to get away. Any- 
how, she made a most ridiculous fuss over nothing, and cleared 
out.” Lady Mayfield opened her eyes very wide. “Can you 
imagine such a thing?” 

“I think I can if I try very hard.” 

“This is quite between ourselves.” She leaned a little closer 
and talked confidentially. “But Eustace is as obstinate as 
twenty mules about it all, and it is getting serious. At first 
he thought she would come back at once — we all did, and so 
we just sat and waited.” 

“She didn’t?” 

“No, that’s the odd part of it. Then we put the whole thing 
into the hands of a detective, but only after a month, and by 
that time the line was cold. Literally no trace of her any- 
where.” She shrugged her fine shoulders. “Eustace may be a 
widower for all we know, and Gee in Heaven. Oh, she’s sure 
to go there, for she is so fearfully straight-laced.” Nell laughed 
and glanced at Lousada’s quiet face. “But it is awkward, isn’t 
it? In some ways I think Eustace feels rather wretched about 
it, and then at other times it is a relief. If you don’t know 
whether you are a widower or not you can’t risk bigamy these 
days, and it is a kind of protection.” 

“So she is lost ?” he asked, “and no one has done anything ?” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


198 

“I told you we had,” Lady Mayfield replied, “and I, person- 
ally, am really worried. You met her, didn’t you?” 

“Yes, I met her.” He seemed rather bored, she thought, and 
then he added quickly, “I did not suppose it would work. But 
to leave it like this. . . . Isn’t it a mistake?” 

“One of those mistakes which can’t be rectified. Poor old 
Eustace; it’s dreadfully hard on him, and he does feel it. So 
far no one has worried, but in the end it will begin to look 
rather queer.” She glanced at him. “I suppose you haven’t 
met her, have you?” 

“I?” Lousada’ s face grew blank. “My dear Lady Mayfield, 
I have been out of London.” 

“Of course, I knew that; only such queer things happen, 
don’t they?” 

Lousada stood up and looked at the crowded room, and then 
at Lady Mayfield’s jewel-crowned head. “She struck me,” he 
said slowly, “as being both genuine and unselfish. Two rather 
uncommon qualities. Didn’t you think so?” 

“Unselfish?” Eleanor nearly screamed. “The last, the very 
last word I should have used. Think of the endless trouble 
she has given, and Eustace is still ready to take her back. 
Positively. He says so. Even though he doesn’t know what 
she may have done all this time.” 

‘Heroic,” Lousada commented dryly. 

“It is heroic, though I know you don’t mean it,” she re- 
torted. “After all, Georgie isn’t exactly a Helen of Troy, and 
I think Eustace is behaving splendidly.” 

“Yet, I take it, it was something he did which drove her 
out.” Lousada put his hand on the back of a gilt chair and 
their eyes met. 

“I assure you it was nothing,” she replied emphatically. “A 
silly little affair with Averil Markham. They’ve both forgotten 
it by now, and Eustace never meant anything.” 

“So I should have suspected,” Lousada laughed, “but per- 
haps his wife believed in him? It is rather bewildering. In 
fact” — he stood up again and looked away-»-“if was a pretty 
fatal combination from the start.” 

Lady Mayfield grew irritated. “You are surprisingly ro* 
mantic,” she said, “or is it that Georgie’s beaux yeux affect 
your judgment? Comerforth and several others knew some- 
thing of that side of Georgie.” She signed to a young man 
who was pushing his way towards her and turned an unrespon- 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


199 

sive shoulder to Lousada, who made no further effort to con- 
tinue the conversation. 

A day or two later he received a letter from Georgie, and 
he sat for a long time thinking, when he had read it. She said 
very little, but if he chose to do so he could now tell Eustace 
Clint where he might find his wife. If Eustace was really 
repentant it might be better that they should put their past 
behind them and begin all over again. Eustace had suffered, 
and certainly Georgie had gone through a great deal. 

Suppose he put Eustace on the track of Georgie and they 
made it up, what became of his own feeling that the junction 
was a fatal one? Now that she was out of reach, Clint be- 
lieved her to be desirable once again, and yet there was no 
stability behind this mood. Lousada smoothed his sandy hair 
and lay back in a dreary looking arm-chair. He was asking 
himself whether there might not be some personal feeling behind 
his own attitude ? Why should he care ? So that the patch was 
put in the old matrimonial garment, what else mattered? The 
world was still a sink of hypocrisy and the conventions deadly 
strong. To stand between Georgie and a return to what was at 
least comfort, seemed inadmissible. 

He recalled her small, piquarde little face, and the restless 
look in her eyes. To go back to Clint unchanged in the essen- 
tial principle of herself was only to go back to disaster. Her 
note was brief, but it contained an invitation to tea in some- 
body’s kitchen. Lousada was not open to surprises; life had 
offered him too many, but he was intrigued by the idea. 

“I may as well tell you first as last,” she had written, “that 
I’m what they call a ‘skivvy/ at least, that’s the name the 
errand boys have for it. Mrs. Sandys is very nice and it’s all 
quite good fun, but she is rather particular and would rather 
me not go out to meet you until she’s had a look at you herself. 
What she’ll say, goodness knows, when she does see you. So 
be on your best, and no flashy ties nor spats , or maybe you’ll not 
get a ticket for the lecture.” 

The note she sent him exhibited the true “Georgian” spirit, 
and Lousada felt that he had only to look up to see her stand- 
ing there. She could fling her personality across the distance 
and -beguile him into the belief that he need only stretch out 
a hand to clasp her hand over the table. She was there — 
surely she was. Life awakened at the mere thought of her, and 
he began to recall her voice with its flute-like inflections, and 


200 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


her astonishing way of expressing herself. Beside her, the rest 
of the women in the world were all dull and colourless. They 
chattered aimlessly, insisted upon themselves and wanted to 
make you believe that they, alone, were great and compelling. 
He knew good women and bad, and there seemed only to be 
really just “women” — and Georgie. 

At that he got up and replaced the letter in his pocket. He 
intended to accept the invitation to tea. After all, Georgie 
was his by right of friendship, and so long as he stood as an 
honest friend, his own inner communings had, or need have, 
nothing to say to the matter. She was like fresh violets on 
a cool spring morning, and any man may enjoy the fragrance 
even if he may not lift the clean purple flowers to his lips. He 
felt disgusted as he thought of Clint. Clint, who had said in 
his hearing that he thanked his God that most Englishwomen 
were over-sexed; for what else, in the name of wonder, did a 
man want of them? Let Clint have what he might so easily 
find. 


CHAPTER XX 


Lousada’s reply to Georgie’s letter was the first cause of any 
friction between her and Mrs. Sandys. They had been out 
together at a meeting of one of the leagues to which Mrs. 
Sandys belonged, and came back fagged and exhausted. Mrs. 
Sandy s’s address had not been well received, and consequently 
her nerves were still on edge. 

The kitchen seemed cheerful and homely, as Georgie turned 
on the light and looked around her with a sense of comfort. 
Walls have a blessedness at times, and there was shelter in the 
little room with the red canisters along the mantelshelf and 
the gleaming pots and pans. A letter lay on the table, which 
Mrs. Sandys picked up, and when she had scrutinised the ad- 
dress, handed it to Georgie. 

‘TPs from my friend,” she said, flushing as she read it. 
“Oh, Pm awfully glad, he says he’ll come to tea to-morrow.” 

Mrs. Sandys sat down in the creaking basket-chair while 
Georgie put the kettle on the gas-ring. “I am beginning to 
wonder if it is unwise for you to have young men to tea,” she 
said, her Madonna face very stern and even harsh. 

“He isn’t a very young man,” Georgie objected, “but he’s 
awfully nice.” 

“What is he?” Mrs. Sandys inquired frigidly. 

“I believe he’s in a Government office.” 

“Oh, a temporary clerk, I suppose?” 

“Very likely. I don’t know. He’s not one to talk.” 

“You must forgive me, Miss Desmond, but may I ask how 
you came to meet him?” 

Georgie looked at the kettle. She knew perfectly well that 
Mrs. Sandys wished now to withdraw her permission, not be- 
cause anything was really any different, but because she was 
filled with the commonplace desire to punish. 

“I met him at a party,” she said in a dull voice. “Dada and 
me were there, apd he got me tea.” 

Mrs. Sandys gave a sigh of despair. “I wish you were more 

201 


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A RECKLESS PURITAN 


open and candid,” she said, and her mouth looked cruel, “Do 
you suppose he will ask you to marry him?” 

Georgie had taken up the kettle, and she all but dropped it 
in her dismay at the suggestion. “Indeed, no,” she said, vary- 
ing the monotony of her reply. “That he will not.” 

“Then if his intentions are not honourable, I don’t see that 
I ought to encourage you to see this person at all.” 

“Not honourable? But, Mrs. Sandys, we’re friends ” 
Georgie’s voice rang, charged with reproach. She admired 
Mrs. Sandys so much and inwardly protested at the indecent 
stripping of her ideals. “Just as anyone might be. There’s 
no harm in it.” 

“There is a very great deal of harm in a girl having men 
friends who may mean nothing. If, as you say, he does mean 
nothing, in my eyes the question becomes one of principle. 
You are in my charge, and I am more or less responsible for 
you.” Mrs. Sandys took the cup of cocoa from Georgie’s hands. 
“In your class. Miss Desmond, as you very well know, friend- 
ships of this kind are an acknowledged danger.” She was 
speaking to Georgie’s back by this time, and the atmosphere 
was icy cold. 

“Only ladies can have friends?” Georgie asked in a voice 
which sounded slightly ruffled. “Is that what you mean?” 

“More or less.” Mrs. Sandys, having wounded, was now 
withdrawing from the argument. She began to feel uncom- 
fortable and she grew flushed and uneasy. “You must not 
think me hard. I want to do the best for you. By the way, 
I did not hear his name.” 

“Oh, well, I s’pose it doesn’t matter.” Weariness and dejec- 
tion spoke in every line of Georgie’s small figurd She was 
sick at heart and hurt, and even the inspiration of anger had 
left her, for reaction was setting in steadily. “Anyhow, ’tis 
John Lousada.” 

“Lousada? John Lousada?” Mrs. Sandys sat up as though 
she had touched an electric needle. “Nonsense, Miss Desmond. 
Perhaps the man gave you a false name. Mr. Lousada is a very 
important person indeed; and every one knows’ who he is. I 
am afraid that this man has been deceiving you shamefully.” 

Georgie stood by the table and fiddled with the letter. She 
was doubtful as to whether she should fight the issue or not, and 
yet it was hard to be misjudged and to lose the one bright gift 
of the gods, when things were so dreary and dull already. 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


203 

“His name is John,” she said in the same weary voice, “and 
if you’ll not b’lieve my word, you can read his letter.” 

Mrs. Sandy s hesitated, but she told herself that it was her 
duty to probe the matter; also, being an inquisitive woman, 
she really wanted to know further in any case. 

“If you do not mind,” she said with a faint smile of recon- 
ciliation which Georgie ignored. “You see, it is the name of a; 
man who is really well known, and if some impostor has been 

using it ■” She took the letter and stared at the few lines 

written on heavily-stamped paper. It did not begin with the 
usual formality, but went straight ahead. 

“Yes, I’ll come, and gladly. I like the idea of a kitchen. 
As I haven’t got a pair of spats you needn’t feel anxious. For- 
give this wretched scrawl, but a person who calls himself the 
Secretary for Foreign Affairs wants me to talk to him, so I 
must go.” And the signature “John Lousada.” 

Mrs. Sandys looked up and drew a long breath. “I am very 
sorry,” she said impulsively, “but you will understand, Miss 
Desmond, that the mistake was a natural one for me to make. 

You see, I know so little about you, and ” she hesitated, 

“your present position made it appear very improbable — don’t 
you see?” 

Georgie looked at the clock. There was something quietly 
comforting in its expressionless face. It told lies about the 
time, but that was hardly its fault. She was feeling desperately 
tired, and now Mrs. Sandys had offended against her own 
standards. She seemed to feel that it was natural to be sus- 
picious, and right to accuse without knowledge of facts, and 
Georgie saw her ideal Mrs. Sandys shrivel and shrink under 
her eyes. She was apologising only because she was convicted 
of her mistake. 

“Don’t be distressed,” Mrs. Sandys went on rapidly, “and 
have Mr. Lousada here. I am very busy to-morrow, but I will 
try to be back in time to see him.” 

“V ery well, so,” Georgie said, and her voice was sad and dis- 
consolate. “Whatever you like yourself.” 

Mrs. Sandys put down her cup and wished Georgie good 
night, and as she undressed and prepared to get into bed, she 
reflected angrily on the situation. She was not really satisfied 
about Lousada. That he was John Lousada only added to the 
questionable nature of the friendship, when she considered it. 
Many men of public eminence were capable of intrigues, and 


204 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


it was bizarre, to say the least of it, that a man who could have 
tea in any highly select drawing-room in London should decide 
to visit a pretty general servant and write her a curiously fa- 
miliar note in which he mentioned “spats.” 

She combed out her smooth, thin hair, and her mouth con- 
tracted. A great deal would have to depend upon what Mrs. 
Sandys thought of Lousada when she met him, and with that 
she wandered from the subject to other fields, and rehearsed a 
speech she was due to make the following day. 

As for Georgie, she was one of those who suffer on this 
sorrowful earth, but only for a time, and before she slept she 
had regained a little of her happiness. What did anybody or 
anything matter? Let them think of her as they pleased, let 
them enjoy any superiority they could extract from the fact 
that she was humble, poor and friendless. It would be good to 
see Lousada again so soon. He had a way of making you feel 
strong and sure of yourself. Georgie was temperamentally 
denied the assistance of consistent hatred. She always trusted 
people, and expected them to be kind; when they punished her, 
she eventually smiled at her chastisers, and perhaps that was 
one reason why she had the attraction of a child. 

At any rate, she slept very peacefully under the printed 
words, which Mrs. Sandys frequently quoted: “The man who 
cannot forgive any mortal thing is a green hand in life.” 


CHAPTER XXI 


Georgie put the kitchen into spick-and-span order, and refused 
Mrs. Sandys’s offer of the sitting-room for the tea-party. She 
ran out and bought a bunch of flowers at the last minute, and 
when she looked around at the completed effect she felt satis- 
fied. 

Mrs. Sandy s having shown emphatically that she desired to 
forget their disagreement and that she wished it forgotten, 
Georgie met her half-way and forgave her freely. She had 
“robes of joy” to wear that day, and so it was a little thing to 
be generous and kind. 

The afternoon was cold and raw, with draperies of grey 
fog hanging about the chimney stacks of the high buildings 
beyond the windows. The wet pavements and the streets were 
dingy and grey, and people who passed looked as though they 
were a string of hopeless pilgrims driven onwards to some 
unwished-for goal. But in Georgie’s eyes they were trans- 
figured, and she felt that in spite of the dreary effect of every- 
thing, happiness abounded, because she herself was happy. If 
it had been Miss White or Milson Rogers who was coming, 
quite probably she would have been even happier, and if Dada 
had been the expected guest, her radiance alone would have 
lighted the room without need of Mrs. Sandys’s electricity. As 
it was, Lousada was coming, and with a full sense of the fun of 
the thing, Georgie put on her cap and apron and awaited him, 
her eyes on the clock. 

He was punctual to the moment, and Georgie ran to the 
door and admitted him, her heart beating fast as she watched 
him hang up his coat and hat, and then he turned and shook 
hands again with her, very limply, as was his wont. 

“Your fancy dress suits you,” he said, nodding appreciatively 
and he followed her into the kitchen and sat down in Mrs. 
Sandys’s basket-chair. 

“Glory! It's something to see a man again,” Georgie re- 
marked as she took the kettle from the hob and warmed the 
tea-pot. “Are you starving, or will I wait to wet the tea ?” 

205 


206 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


‘Tm starving,” he replied. “And how long is it since we 
met? By the way, do I call you Miss Desmond?” 

“You might even go so far as to call me Georgie,” she said, 
tilting her head on one side. 

“And my name is John,” he looked at her steadily. “Am I 
to be so far favoured as to hear you use it?” 

“Now and then, for a treat,” she agreed, and sat down by 
the table. “And I hear that you are no end of a swell, and that 
all the duchesses in London are mad after you ?” 

Lousada smiled to himself. “Who has been giving me away ?” 
he asked. 

“The missus. Mrs. Sandys, that is. She’s dead nuts on you, 
and is coming home in time to gaze at your face.” 

“Is she, indeed?” he moved and crossed his legs, “and she is 
good to you?” 

“Oh, yes.” 

“And why — no, I mustn’t ask that, must I? The individual 
right of action is divine. For some reason or other you are 
here, and do you remain here?” 

For a moment Georgie’s face grew fiercely tragic, and she 
sat blinking her eyelids before she replied, “D’you b’lieve in 
looking ahead?” she asked. “After all, it’s what is up to us at 
this living minute which counts. If we were to go prophesying 
it might take us to the last Seal in the Revelations.” 

“Philosopher,” he said. “Am I allowed to smoke?” 

“Smoke away,” she agreed. “I’ll have one myself.” 

“We had got to the last Seal in Revelations,” he reminded 
her when she had lighted a cigarette. 

“What I mean is, ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,’ ” 
Georgie continued more calmly, “and to go borrow trouble never 
got the lame tinker a new coat. I was in a bad way before I 
went into service, and yet I suppose we all of us must pay when 
we want something out of the ordinary.” She cast down her 
eyes and thought for a moment. “We had a row, Eustace and 
myself, and I cleared out.” 

Lousada made no answer. There was only the dim light 
coming through the windows of the small room, and the fitful 
leaping of the fire showing through the close bars of the range, 
so that his face was in a heavy shadow, and revealed nothing 
of his thoughts. 

“I dare say you and many another might think I was hard on 
Eustace, and there’s times when I get bothered about it myself ; 


207 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 

but what I thought was reason enough at the time, is reason 
enough yet, and so there it is” ; again she paused as though she 
expected him to speak, but he said nothing. “Dada doesn't 
know,” she continued, “no one does except Eustace, Nell, and 
one other, and they’ve left it at that. It’s hard to have the 
world against you, J ohn, but it toughens you finely.” 

“Martyr,” he said softly. “Authentic Irishwoman. “I felt 
you would do something of the kind.” 

“Martyrs be hanged.” She got up and took down a red 
canister from the mantelpiece. “I’m well, and not too badly 
off. Mrs. Sandys is no end of a clever woman, and she talks 
most beautifully.” 

“I hope she acts up to her oratory ?” 

“Indeed, yes.” Georgie counted the number of teaspoons as 
she measured out the tea. “Grand.” 

“Do you intend to remain here for ever, Georgie ?” 

“Oh, you and your for evers! What is for ever, at all? I 
might get run over by a train or a motor-bicycle, and then 
where would ‘for ever’ be?” 

“But if you do not?” he leaned forward and touched her. 
“Do be a shade less improvident. If you can make it up with 
Clint, mightn’t it be best ?” 

She drew a long sighing breath and occupied herself again 
with the teapot. 

“I loved Eustace,” she said. “That’s true. When I married 
I was cracked about him, and now I’m going to tell you some- 
thing that’s against myself, I s’pose. After a bit,” she sat down 
in front of the tea-tray, “I began to find either himself or 
myself was different. In England I wasn’t as much of a success 
as I expected. Vanity, of course you’ll say, and it’s true. Not 
that I’d mind that very much, but what I did mind was that 
Eustace minded. It sounds very muddled, but you’ll under- 
stand me, Mr. Lousada.” 

“I’ll try to, Miss Desmond.” 

“I am his wife, John,” she continued, “and I know him 
through and through, but I admit it hurt me. D’you suppose 
that I’d have cared? Did I care what Milson and all the rest 
of them said of Eustace?” 

“I don’t suppose you did,” he said dryly. 

“Not that all of this matters, man alive,” Georgie spoke 
cheerfully. “It’s all by way of explanation. What did matter 


208 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


was something I can’t be repeating, even to you — it broke 
things up between us for good and all.” 

He thought he heard a stifled sob in her voice, and when he 
replied his voice was harsh. “I recommend reconciliation,” he 
said briefly. “Patch it up. A stitch in time, Georgie, and all 
that kind of thing. You can’t go on being a general servant, 
and Eustace Clint will sweep down upon you sooner or later 
and make his own appeal. Let me be honest. I met Lady 
Mayfield lately, and she says that his affair with some girl or 
other is over, and that he has been trying to find you. Will 
that knowledge alter your judgments?” 

Georgie sprang up and turned on the light, flooding the room 
with the clear, uncompromising hardness of a strong electric 
bulb tempered only by a, white china shade. She looked pale, 
but her eyes were bright and her mouth firm. 

“Is it go back? Go back on myself and what I believe?” 
she asked. “You to put such a question? If I left Eustace 
for a reason, what’s happened since to change everything ? He’s 
tired of Miss Markham and she of him? More shame to the 
both of them. He wants to find me? Why ? Because it’s queer 
to have your wife missing. I can’t let Eustace free, because I 
don’t hold with ending a marriage at all; and having made a 
mess of things, good Lord, John, I’m not so cowardly as to run 
home on the first whistle, even if I am a servant girl.” 

Lousada sat watching her with a whimsical look in his eyes, 
and then put his hands above his head. “I surrender,” he said. 
“Kamerade.” 

“And now I’ll give you a cup of tea.” Georgie was breathing 
hard. “Surely I’m growing very quarrelsome, John.” 

Lousada stirred his tea thoughtfully. “I think you’re a 
foreigner*,” he said, glancing at her sideways. “Clint ought 
not to have married you. Only a very exceptional English- 
man should ever dare to marry an Irishwoman. On the other 
hand, Englishwomen are quite satisfactory as wives for the 
Irish. I don’t understand it myself.” 

The subject of marriage always interested Georgie, and she 
started off full tilt. She cited the facts as known to herself, 
and how, on the appearance of a British regiment at Cork, 
marriages had followed like a crop of mushrooms. English 
regiments carried off hosts of Irish girls, who returned on visits, 
Anglicised and altered so that they looked very nearly English, 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


209 

and why, then, was she herself such a deplorable exception to 
the rule? 

“You’re a strange being,” he said when she paused at last. 
“A kind of green cocktail. I wish I knew what to say to you, 
but I don’t.” 

“I’ll not go back on what I believe,” she said firmly. 

“So I gather. Advice is no use. But what next, Georgie? 
What, in the name of wisdom, are you going to do?” 

She shook her head and made no reply for some time. She 
seemed to Lousada to have drawn away into some dim starlit 
place of her soul, where she received comfort. 

“D’you know,” she said with a sudden laugh of amusement, 
“the young man from the grocery store asked me to marry him ? 
What do you think of that?” 

Lousada handed her his cup. “Half, this time, and not too 
strong. I think he showed his good taste, even if it was rather 
hopeless. The desire of the moth for the star.” 

“It helped me along,” she said frankly. “Bad luck on him, 
of course, but sometimes I feel as if I mattered to no one, and 
was like a football, kicked here and there by one and another. 
I’d not like to grow hardened, but you get hard in the end.” 

“I admire your pluck, but it’s very expensive,” he remarked. 
“I wish, Georgie Desmond, that I could speak my own heart 
out to you. Am I forbidden to do so?” 

“It depends on what’s inside in it,” she said nervously. “You 
see, you and I are good friends, John, and I’m a married 
woman. If what you have to say isn’t any way personal, say 
it out.” 

“But I’m afraid it is,” he looked at her again, “so I will keep 
it to myself. Only I warn you, I’ve done my duty about Clint, 
and I’m not a hero. I can’t promise to push his claim any 
further.” 

“That’s between him and me,” she moved restlessly, and the 
bell of the outer door rang. “Glory! Who’s that now?” She 
got to her feet. “I’d love you to listen to me show them in,” 
she laughed. “It’s as good as a play.” 

Smoothing her apron and tidying her hair, she left the 
kitchen with a parting wink at Lousada, who tiptoed to the 
door and watched her cross the small hall. 

As she opened the front door she stepped back quickly, as 
Mrs. Clint stood, ponderous and dignified, on the threshold. 

“Is Mrs. Sandys at home?” she asked. 


210 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


“No.” Georgie’s voice was subdued and hardly audible. 

“When is she expected back?” 

“Not until late.” 

Mrs. Clint made an exclamation of annoyance, and opening 
a capacious bag, took out a card. She seemed in doubt of 
mind, and peered at Georgie, who had retreated behind the door 
into shelter. Mrs. Clint was evidently going to say something 
further, but at that moment Mrs. Sandys herself came quickly 
along the passage and greeted her with great enthusiasm. 

“Mrs. Clint, what a fortunate accident that I should get in in 
time to see you.” 

Leaving them together, Georgie fled back to the kitchen, her 
face flaming and her whole small person alive with excitement. 

“What’ll I do, whatever will I do, John?” she asked in a 
whisper. “Mrs. Sandys is sure and certain to ring for the tea, 
and then she’ll spot me. Isn’t it awful? The awf’lest thing 
that could have happened.” 

“Don’t let us lose our heads,” Lousada said, smiling at her. 
“I’ll bring in the tea-tray. You can cut your finger or some- 
thing. How would that be?” 

A second later, when Mrs. Sandys came into the kitchen, she 
found Lousada binding up Georgie’s wrist with a handkerchief. 
He looked up at Mrs. Sandys and explained solemnly that there 
had been a small accident. 

“May I carry in the tray ?” he asked, watching her carefully. 

“I wish Mrs. Clint had chosen another evening,” Mrs. Sandys 
said in dejected tones. “I was looking forward to having a little 
talk with you. You and Miss Desmond are old friends. How 
very nice.” 

She now felt sure that Lousada was, like herself, a socialist, 
which explained his simple friendship with a girl of decent 
parentage who had become a domestic helper, so she patted 
Georgie’s shoulder before she followed him out of the kitchen. 

“I shall see to the cut myself, later on,” she said. 

“She’ll catch us out over the cut,” Georgie said, as Lousada 
came back. “That’s as true as you’re here. You needn’t be 
leaving yet, need you ?” 

He looked at the clock. “I should go, but I’m not going,” 
he replied. “Can’t you come out to dinner some evening, 
Georgie ? Or lunch ?” 

“I don’t know if I can ; but I will,” she said defiantly. “Will 
you reely have tea with Mrs. Sandys?” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


21 1 


“Certainly,” lie said. “I must get on with her. It is one 
of the moves in the game. If I am to see you, I have to make 
friends with her.” 

Georgie looked very small and defenceless as she stood by 
the kitchen table, and all of a sudden John Lousada’s whole 
being revolted against her fate. He longed to snatch her from 
the surroundings in which she was placed, and to break her 
pathetic refusal and sweep her into warmth and love once more. 
Not Clint’s love, with its faithlessness and condescension, but 
his own real love for her. F or her sake he must keep his feelings 
to himself and prevent her guessing anything. She had the 
kind of courage which, if called upon, would exile him from her, 
and there was such a desperate battle attached even to their 
friendship that he must not spoil her happiness. Just then her 
eyes were eloquent. The whole of her heart rose up and looked 
out through them, and she smiled wistfully. 

“It’s been grand to see yo^i,” she said. “And I’ll manage 
so’s Mrs. Sandys can’t doctor my wrist until morning, and by 
then she’ll have forgotten it. I couldn’t face Mrs. Clint. You 
don’t think me cowardly, do you?” 

“No, I don’t,” he replied. “But I’m not pretending I like 
this arrangement of yours, Georgie ; sooner or later there will be 
a smash and, somehow, I feel it may come through me. That 
is what I hate.” 

“They can’t kill me,” Georgie laughed gallantly. “If Mrs. 
Sandys sends me to Jerusalem in a ham basket itself, I don’t 
lose my life over it.” 

“Au revoir,” he said, as their hands touched. 

In the drawing-room Mrs. Sandys was explaining to Mrs. 
Clint that the man who carried in the tray was no less a person 
than John Lousada. Mrs. Clint had never heard of him, so 
she was totally unimpressed, but she was curious to know why 
he was in the kitchen. She had an exact memory, and was in- 
terested in the servant question. Mrs. Sandys was irritated to 
find her guest indifferent to the dramatic announcement she had 
made, and found herself under close cross-examination as to her 
reasons for allowing her general servant to entertain single 
men. 

“I cannot sufficiently impress upon you,” Mrs. Clint said in 
tones of stem disapproval, “the danger of your own attitude. It 
really surprises me that you should permit such a thing. I only 
caught a glimpse of the girl, as she practically hid behind the 


212 A RECKLESS PURITAN 

door. If her conscience had been clear, why should she have 
hidden ?” 

“I can’t see ” Mrs. Sandys began weakly. 

“Well, I can. Oh, my dear Katherine, be a little more 
worldly. You are out all day, and what do you know of the 
conduct which goes on in your absence? All servants are 
alike. I very definitely suspect this man of immoral intentions, 
and I assure you that I never trust any girl in my own employ- 
ment. It is fatal 

“You are so sweeping,” Mrs. Sandys objected. “Miss Des- 
mond is a good girl. I am sure of that.” 

“Desmond?” Mrs. Clint looked like a thunder-cloud. “That 
name has painful associations for me.” She paused and 
thought, and then appeared serene again. “If she is at all like 
a Miss Desmond I once knew of, I pity you.” She chewed the 
cud of her memories for a moment, during which time Mrs. 
♦Sandys argued on the abstract morality of the domestic 
helper. 

“My advice to you,” Mrs. Clint looked at her hostess with 
eyes not at all unlike those of her son, “is to keep a strict watch 
upon her.” 

Mrs. Sandys felt that there was an episcopal awfulness in the 
voice and manner of Mrs. Clint, and, as she was temperamen- 
tally nervous, she became alarmed. 

“Well,” she said dejectedly, “this makes the prospect of a 
visit from Angela Dubarry more of an infliction than I had 
expected it to be. I heard from her this morning.” 

“Angela Dubarry? Cousin of Lady Duncarrig, and grand- 
daughter of the late Earl ?” Mrs. Clint asked. She was well up 
in the peerage, and her gloom lifted slightly. 

“Yes,” Mrs. Sandys agreed. She was not sorry that Mrs. 
Clint should know that. “She is a connection of my hus- 
band’s.” 

Mrs. Clint collected her many wrappings, and prepared to 
leave, and as she fastened her furs around her neck a thought 
struck her. “May I ask you to ring for your maid?” she said. 

“Certainly,” Mrs. Sandys replied. 

“Because,” Mrs. Clint said with a kind of saintly roguish- 
ness, “if I am right in my suspicions, she will make an excuse 
not to appear.” 

“I think you are hard on her.” Mrs. Sandys rang the bell. 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


213 

“My own feeling for her is that she is quite truthful, even if 
not very intelligent. She is impulsive and ill-advised, but no 
worse.” 

Mrs. Clint held her peace and waited, but no answer came. 

“I will go and see.” Mrs. Sandys broke from the tension of 
the moment. “Really you are wrong, and not only wrong, but 
unfair to the girl.” But when she returned once more and 
stood before Mrs. Clint, it was obvious that she was both dis- 
tressed and puzzled, and that her faith was shaken. 

“Tell me nothing,” Mrs. Clint said with great majesty. “I 
wish to know nothing. All I ask is, that you should so far 
safeguard yourself as to keep a watch upon her.” 

“I am so busy,” Mrs. Sandys said, glancing round the room. 
“My public claims are so many. She is quite honest and up- 
right, and as for Mr. Lousada, I cannot believe that there is 
anything wrong between them. You have very much distressed 
me, Mrs. Clint.” 

She let Mrs. Clint out into the world again, and stood in the 
hall reflecting uncomfortably on her words. Mrs. Clint had all 
the success which follows upon any adviser of violent or direct 
action. She always called upon her hearers to uphold a march- 
ing cause. She had thrilled mass meetings of Friendly Girls 
during the war, by demanding that armies should march into 
Berlin, and now she had challenged Mrs. Sandys to vindicate 
her general servant, with what appeared to be a kind of secret 
knowledge which coloured and strengthened her suspicions. 
Some Miss Desmond, known to her, was a renegade and an 
outlaw, and the resemblance between her name and Georgie’s 
was distinctly ominous. 

Georgie was washing up in the scullery, and Mrs. Sandys 
avoided the kitchen for the rest of the evening. There might 
be some truth in what Mrs. Clint had said. Mrs. Clint’s tre- 
mendous faith in the wickedness of human nature had a way 
of turning up as a winning number, and one could not entirely 
ignore it. So she avoided Georgie, and did not ask her about 
her wrist. Lousada had impressed her quite favourably, and 
she was anxious to see him again. It would be pleasant to 
allude to his visits to the flat, and from that she went on to 
think of Angela Dubarry. 

Angela was no longer exactly a girl, and she spent much of 
her time visiting among relations. That she should have in- 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


214 

vited herself to Mrs. Sandys’s flat only meant that she wanted 
to fill up a vacant space in her own arrangements, and as they 
were antagonistic in politics, Mrs. Sandys did not care for the 
prospect. Still, whoever came or went, she must attend meet- 
ings and be present at councils, and Angela could look after 
herself. 

Before she went to bed, she felt extremely sorry for Georgie, 
and she opened the kitchen door to wish her good night. 
Georgie was sitting at the table, her head propped between her 
hands, looking steadily in front of her, but as she did not turn 
or look up, Mrs. Sandys altered her decision and slipped away 
without speaking. Georgie had seemed uncannily detached; her 
profile was pale and lifted, almost as though she were praying, 
and for a second Mrs. Sandys obtained an impression of having 
seen a glimpse of her domestic helper’s soul. There had been 
pathos in the sight, and delicacy, and the truth, which only 
suffering brings to people. Was it possible to see the inner 
spirit, in one flash like this? Mrs. Sandys was uncomfortable 
and distressed as she withdrew. The world with its righteous 
Mrs. Clints was such a puzzling place, because Mrs. Clint was 
never candid, and even plumed herself on her wiliness. Mrs. 
Sandys very nearly wept as she put on her dressing-gown and 
wove her hair into two long, thin plaits. She envied the assur- 
ance of Mrs. Clint, and her way of quoting the Scriptures so 
aptly; she had an impregnable defence line, and only believed 
in the Peerage. Once you forsook this simple plan, and placed 
your faith in anyone who appeared honest, you got into conflict 
and difficulties, and found things out about the very people you 
championed. 

What a world! Mrs. Sandys suffered horribly from doubt 
of mind, but then, she always had done so. When she had been 
a devout adherent of the High Church movement, she had felt 
there was much to be said for Non-conformists, and when she 
had become a Roman Catholic, she fell a prey to agnosticism; 
now that she was a free-thinker, the chief trouble she had was 
disbelief in revealed religions, and so she was also a spiritualist, 
which phase had begun in her during the weeks when she was a 
declared atheist. Between the strong determination of Mrs- 
Clint, and the vague possibilities of vice in the heart and nature 
of Georgie, she was again driven and tossed like a mist wraith 
in a storm. She did not know what she believed, or what she 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


215 


felt. One thing only she was sure of, and that was that John 
Lousada had “nice eyes.” She never read popular fiction, or 
her own description might have put her on her guard, but she 
felt that it was wise and highly diplomatic, to ask him to call 
on her again at an early date. 


CHAPTER XXII 


For some days after Lousada’s visit, the feeling in the flat 
was one of strain. Georgie was not sure what was wrong with 
her. She suffered from a sense of malaise and a weary restless-^ 
ness which was foreign to her nature. Her happiness had de- 
serted her, or came only in snatches like a bird resting for a 
moment to sing, and then flying away again. Mrs. Sandys said 
nothing unkind, but she was furtive, and patchy in her temper; 
so that the old calm was gone, and in its stead there was a 
brooding hint of coming storm. 

Georgie had intended to ask permission to take an evening 
off to dine with Lousada, but in the face of the queer and 
disconcerting silence of Mrs. Sandys, she hesitated, and finally 
took French leave, dining with him in a quiet little restaurant 
on the Chelsea Embankment, and returning before Mrs. Sandys 
got back from one of her endless meetings. Perhaps it was 
deceitful; Georgie was not sure, but after all it had been worth 
it and the enjoyment of the two hours meant a great deal. She 
believed that she and Lousada were only friends, and with a 
fixed stoicism, decided to ignore the fact that she was not quite 
so sure of this as she might have been a month or two ago. 

Life is hard enough in any case without adding to its diffi- 
culties, and a sense of self-protection made her shrink from 
analysing her own motives too closely. She temporised and 
told herself that nothing mattered so long as they kept along 
the uncertain pathways of friendship. She had her own knowl- 
edge of men to help her, and her heart informed her that 
Lousada cared a very great deal. In Georgie’ s loneliness it may 
be forgiven her that she clung with closed eyes to the only 
comfort she had in her life. She was so young still, and the, 
pleasures of youth were most of them denied to her. The circle 
of her days was close and narrow, and there was nothing to look 
forward to. 

In endeavouring, first of all, to act faithfully by Mrs. Sandys, 
she had only induced an inquisitional attitude on the part of 
her mistress, and suffered undei her cross-examination. To tell 

216 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


217 

her nothing was far simpler, and Georgie felt pleasure in having 
eaten secret bread. She had flung away the toil of the weeks 
and laughed and talked with Lousada, almost the old Georgie 
Desmond once more, and he had been as gay as she. The 
evening had been as harmless as a children’s party. Must she 
bring it to the cold confessional, and stand listening while Mrs. 
Sandys implied that there was some evil behind it all, which 
would harm and destroy her own memories? She decided 
against doing this, and Lousada agreed that she was right. 

“It’s no affair of hers,” he said. “She has written to me, 
Georgie, and asked me to tea. Will you be invited?” 

“Glory! I don’t know,” Georgie laughed. “It depends on 
what mood she is in. And that depends on who she’s been 
speaking to last. It’s awfully queer the way she can’t know her 
own mind at all, isn’t it, now ?” 

“Perhaps she hasn’t a real mind,” he suggested. “That would 
account for a great deal.” 

“She’s awfully clever,” Georgie said with admiring convic- 
tion. “Knows such a heap about life and all that.” 

“I’d rather know what I thought myself,” he commented 
briefly. 

He had accepted Mrs. Sandys’s invitation, and yet Mrs. 
Sandys did not speak of it to Georgie. She said nothing, in 
fact, about Lousada, but made it known to Georgie that she 
was expecting a guest, a relative by marriage, Miss Angela 
Dubarry, who was rather a “special” person. So special indeed, 
that Mrs. Sandys fussed considerably about the tiny spare bed- 
room and had the curtains cleaned. A Socialist herself, as she 
repeated emphatically, she was obliged to admit that her hus- 
band’s kinswoman was from realms whither the ordinary mortal 
did not penetrate. Georgie listened, a prey to discomfort once 
more. Surely she remembered Angela Dubarry? She was one 
of those great and superior people who stayed at Ardclare. Not 
at all often, it was true, and fear of detection there was none, 
because Georgie had only seen her in church. But she knew, 
and her heart told her, that Angela would be a foe. She was 
a beauty who had reached the past tense, and suffered from a 
calm rancour towards others. 

Having no status other than that of a poor relation, she 
went her well-bred way from house to house, leaving an un- 
comfortable sensation behind her, though Georgie knew nothing 
at all of this. In her eyes she had only looked a faded star, 


2l8 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


and she recalled the composure of Miss Dubarry’s face as she 
sat in the Duncarrig3’ pew, ignoring every one but God, with 
positive rudeness. Yes, that was it. Angela was on good terms 
with God, as well as several dukes, and it made her tremen- 
dously distant. Her dark hair and haughty features, her look 
of starved aloofness, and her reputation for intense goodness, 
made her alarming when you thought of her in the flat. 

Mrs. Sandys, after all, was a human being, who suffered from 
varying moods and fitful passions, but Angela was one of the 
immortals who was above all this. You thought of her in 
marble halls or travelling to the nearest palace, and at the 
notion of such a visitor Georgie felt nervous and anxious. 

“Will we want the dinner late?” she asked, and Mrs. Sandys 
frowned and looked at the fire. 

“I don’t see that I need put myself out,” she said, though 
the question really affected Georgie and not her. “She has 
asked herself here. I’m delighted to have her,” she added 
quickly. “She is no trouble at all. Perhaps if we added 
soup ?” 

“Very well,” Georgie agreed. “But no joint?” 

“Joint? Certainly not. Miss Dubarry won’t stay long, I 
think. Her visit to Lord and Lady Oxhey had to be put off 
on account of illness. It is always a great pleasure to have 
her.” 

The day before Angela was due to arrive, Georgie met 
Lousada at a tea shop in the King’s Road, and they sat in 
a crowded room and looked at one another over the round table. 

“I hate your doing this kind of thing,” he said. “It’s no use 
my pretending I don’t. I believe I know Miss Dubarry. You 
aren’t lucky in these matters.” 

“I’ve seen her in th’ Ardclare pew,” Georgie said with a 
shrug of her shoulders. “After all, John, I’m the dust under 
her feet, so she could leave me alone. Perhaps she’ll give me a 
tip, and we’ll go on the spree out of it.” 

“I wish you’d be reasonable. I wish you’d come and look 
after me instead. I’d take a flat — I mean this seriously, 
Georgie — and not even call, if you said you wouldn’t have me 
there. Just somewhere to put my books and all the things that 
are stored and costing a fortune to keep. Why can’t I do that ?” 

“Because I’ll not,” she said stubbornly. “It’s very kind of 
you, but it’s not any use. I’m well placed as it is.” 

“You are simply incorrigibly self-willed,” he said. 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 219 

“IPs as well for me that I am,” she retorted, and there 
seemed no answer to such an obvious truth, because Lousada 
himself always emphasised the fact that people who didn’t 
know their own minds were indeed contemptible. 

The week before the arrival of Angela had been a happy one, 
and Georgie set to, to get everything ready for Miss Dubarry 
with the energy of good-will. She was a whole-hearted worker, 
just as she was genuine in all other respects, and it gave her a 
sense of pleasure to make the spare room look its best. It 
wasn’t much of a room, and her pride in the flat made her wish 
that it looked better. She bought a small bunch of anemones, 
which made a gay spot of colour on the dressing-table. From 
her dim recollections of Miss Dubarry she suspected her of a 
capacity for scorn, and then, the surroundings she was used to 
in great houses must be in vigorous contrast to the small re- 
sources of Mrs. Sandys’s flat. But she was prepared to admire 
all that was dignified and impressive in the expected guest, and, 
besides, Angela had sat in the church at Ardclare and listened 
to Dada’s sermons more than once. 

Georgie snatched a few minutes to herself, and met Lousada 
at the comer of King’s Road the morning of the day upon 
which Miss Dubarry was to arrive. He was coming to tea with 
Mrs. Sandy s on the following day, but on this point Mrs. 
Sandys had been dumb, so that Georgie suspected her of having 
no intention that Lousada and she should meet. It seemed a 
little unkind, but she did not wish to form rash judgments, and 
she laughed as she gave him a vivid description of the way in 
which she would announce him, and bring in the tea-tray. 

“It won’t do for me to flicker an eyelid,” she said as they 
leaned on the Embankment wall and watched the river craft 
go by. “I’ll have to keep a straight face, and not give a glance 
at you, John! ’Twould be as much as my place is worth.” 

“And what in the world do I do?” he inquired. “Am I to 
sit there like a graven image and let you wait on me? It’s 
going past a joke, Georgie. Do try and see your way to sanity. 
Don’t you understand, you child, that I may be sent away 
again; and to leave you here so friendless and alone is miser- 
able. Surely our friendship makes it possible for me to do 
something to protect you?” 

“I had a lovely letter from Dada this morning,” she said, 
avoiding any answer to his words. “He’s as happy as can be. 
The Bishop came down and gave an address at the school 


220 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


house, and Miss White had a fortune left her by an aunt. A 
hundred pounds a year! Pm as pleased as if it had happened 
to myself. There’s been no botheration over the Sustentation 
Fund at all, and the Duns are coming back. Oh, whatever will 
I do if it gets around to Dada that Eustace and I are out for 
good?” Her face grew sad and troubled. “D’you think they’d 
be as mean as to tell on me?” 

“I do think so,” Lousada said bluntly. “Sooner or later they 
will know. Clint will pose as an injured husband. You are 
playing with dynamite, as I have told you before.” 

“What is there I could do?” she asked wretchedly. 

“Tell your father the truth. You can’t treat him like a child 
for ever. Why should he not know?” 

“Oh, I can’t, I can’t,” Georgie protested. 

“But you can. If you don’t, he will hear it from some one 
else.” 

“I couldn’t bear that he’d be worried.” Georgie blew her nose 
loudly. “It would kill him to know.” 

“People don’t die so easily as all that,” he said shortly. 

“I’m doing no harm to anyone, and I’ve got honest work,” 
she said, defending her own position with some heat. “What’s 
the harm in that, can you tell me ? As for Eustace, if he tries 
to get me back, I’ll not come,” she raised her eyes to Lousada’s 
face. “Mind, if he’d been true, I’d have stayed with him to the 
finish, even if I’d not been able to love him as I did at the start. 
But he was false; so false that I’d not b’lieve his oath”; she 
turned and looked at the swiftly-flowing water below them. 
“He seemed to think that things were enough. Just to give 
me a present, and no more be said. What I gave him was what 
money’d not buy, and he threw it back at me. He hurt me 
badly, and I couldn’t care any more for him, nor ever can, 
whatever the world has to say.” 

“Perhaps you ask too much of him ?” Lousada smiled at her 
averted face. “You are a Victorian, Georgie, out of your ele- 
ment in these modern days. You don’t understand Clint’s point 
of view, though we agreed it was Oriental, didn’t we?” He 
paused, but she did not turn her head, and he guessed that she 
was struggling to hold back tears. He touched her arm lightly. 
“Face the possibility of the whole thing becoming known, and 
make your own preparations. Mrs. Sandys may not side with 
you.” 

“She may not, indeed,” Georgie agreed. 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


221 


‘That means eviction. The world, as you call it, Georgie, 
has to be faced once more. Come out of your romantic castle, 
and cut your possible losses. Or is it that you don’t trust me 
away down in your heart?” 

“I do. B'lieve me, I do,” she said huskily. 

“Then why not agree to my plan ? The flat, with some elderly 
and bad-tempered woman there to keep you from being too 
comfortable or happy, and your conscience clear. The security 
of being in the house of some one who knows the whole story 
through and through. And, after all, you like me a little, don’t 
you? Better than Mrs. Sandys?” 

Georgie turned towards him, and her face was flooded with 
colour. There was a touch of impetuosity in the movement of 
her hands, and her eyes implored him dumbly. The appeal in 
them startled him, and he felt for the moment as though her 
spirit had rushed through to him and that he held her in some 
sense which was limitlessly stronger than the clasp of arms or 
the touch of lips to lips. 

“’Twould be a poor thing for me to lie to you, John,” she 
said. “And so I’ll speak out. It’s because I’m not really all 
the friend I’d like best to be, and I cant take nothing from 
you. That’s the way.” 

He was silent for a very long time before he answered her. 

“It’s no secret, then,” he said at last. “And we both know. 
I don’t see that we need be ashamed that it has come to honest 
avowal. Does it really rule me out ? Am I to stand aside only 
because I’d give you all I have? I’ll never speak of it again — 
I mean this, Georgie — it’s not tall talk — you are free of protes- 
tations from me, and I think you know this.” 

“You see, I’m Eustace Clint’s wife,” she said dully. “If I 
didn’t care a rap for you, perhaps I might go, though it’s hard 
for me to say, because — well, least said’s soonest mended.” She 
awoke from her lethargy at the striking of a neighbouring clock. 
“Glory ! I’ll be late as it is, and the luncheon not ready.” She 
glanced at him shyly, and though he besought her to give him 
five minutes longer, she would not stay, and he watched her 
until she vanished out of sight. 

Miss Dubarry was not due to arrive until late in the after- 
noon and Mrs. Sandys sacrificed herself on the altar of kinship 
so far as to return to her flat half an hour before her visitor 
was due. She had already got to the stage of feeling that 
Angela was to be a charge and a care, and she was fretful and 


222 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


out of temper with Georgie, who, by this time, had learnt that 
a general servant makes a good subject upon whom to visit 
pent up irritations due to remote causes. Whenever Mrs. 
Sandys was put out by some occurrence at a committee meeting, 
Georgie was the sufferer, and so she accepted the veiled com- 
plaints made in a querulous tone as one accepts the rain or 
snow in its season. 

At five o’clock Miss Dubarry arrived, and she and Mrs. 
Sandys greeted one another with much effusion. From the 
kitchen Georgie listened to the meeting and waited until the 
preliminaries were concluded, to carry in the tea-tray. Miss 
Dubarry was sitting in the best chair, her dressing-case and 
an attache case beside her, and she looked, so Georgie thought, 
very regal and composed. She was talking with slow emphasis 
of a bazaar she had just left, which had been opened by a 
princess, and the reflected glamour of royalty still hung around 
her. Already Mrs. Sandys was restless, for Angela monopo- 
lised the whole conversation, and she glanced at Georgie as she 
put down the tray, and broke in upon Miss Dubarry’s recita- 
tion, to suggest that her bag might be removed to her room, 
where the rest of her luggage was already placed. “Miss Des- 
mond will take your bag,” she said, in her nervous way, and 
then, speaking to Georgie, she went on, “Will you please take 
Miss Dubarry’s bag to her room ?” 

Georgie turned in time to catch the elevation of Angela’s 
eyebrows, and her prim, condescending smile of amused scorn, 
but she seemed to object to the idea, and shook her head. “I 
am prepared to look after myself,” she said. “When one is in 
Bohemia, dear Katherine, one does as the Bohemians do.” 

“If you want me to take it, I’ll take it,” Georgie said will- 
ingly. “Will I put a match to the gas, Mrs. Sandys? The 
room is a little cold, I fancy.” She hoped Mrs. Sandys would 
agree, and looked at her imploringly. What would Miss Du- 
barry say afterwards about the flat, if she had just complaints 
to make? There was something in “the cut” of Angela that 
spoke volumes of critical possibilities. 

Miss Dubarry extracted a bunch of keys from her bag. 
“Kindly unpack my trunk,” she said stiffly, holding them out 
to Georgie. “I will see to my dressing-bag myself.” 1 

“Would you like a fire, Angela?” Mrs. Sandys asked. “The 
room is very small, and soon gets like an oven . . . still, if you 
would care to have the gas stove lighted ?” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 223 

“Please,” Miss Dubarry replied firmly, and Georgie withdrew. 
“Did you call that girl ‘Miss Desmond’?” Angela asked when 
she had gone. “The modern idea, I suppose?” 

“She is Irish,” Mrs. Sandys replied as she poured out tea. 
“Careless and untidy, but I like her very much.” 

Again Angela’s eyebrows went upwards. - “I thought I 
recognised a brogue,” she said. “How funny that you should 
have happened on a servant from there.” 

“She isn’t quite a servant.” Mrs. Sandys handed a plate of 
bread and margarine. “Superior, I think. Her father is a 
Presbyterian minister.” 

Angela was not in the least interested. She wanted to talk 
of what she had done at Lady Northmoor’s sale of work, and 
the letters she had written, for she also lent herself to many 
organisations. 

“I had great difficulty in getting the Duke to come,” she 
said, taking up the thread of her conversation where it had 
been abruptly cut short. “At three o’clock the day before, when 
everything was settled, Charles Eorty, his secretary, came and 
told me that it was impossible. He said, ‘Angela, my dear, 
I’ve done all that man can do, and His Grace won’t budge unless 
you can induce Lady Rosemary to look in, even for five min- 
utes.’ So you can imagine what that meant. I was a whole 
hour at the telephone before I could get on to Rosemary Dallas, 
and when I did she made all sorts of difficulties. It was quite 
late by that time, and Octavia Northmoor was in despair. I 
don’t, even now, know how I did it, Katherine, but Rosemary 
said she would come, just for five minutes only, as she was so 
fearfully busy. I rang off, and Octavia felt that I ought to lie 
down, but as time was pressing and I was still uneasy, I rang 
up Charles Eorty. It appears that he was just going out, so 
I was all but too late. When I got on to him and told him that 
Rosemary had agreed to come, he said, ‘You wonder,’ and then 
he went on to speak to the Duke. I was dreadfully anxious 
about it. You see, it had been run so fine, but imagine my 
relief when Charles spoke again and said, ‘It’s all right. He’ll 
be there!’ We had quite a brilliant success, and as I was taking 
all the responsibility, you can guess what a demand it made 
on me.” 

She paused to drink some tea, and Mrs. Sandys charged 
wildly into the conversational gap. “But why was it necessary 
for Lady Rosemary Dallas to go?” she asked. 


224 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


Angela seemed to inquire within herself whether one could 
tell Mrs. Sandys or not, and then decided to beg the question. 
“That is rather a long story,” she replied. 

“Oh, don’t trouble to tell me. I know nothing of society 
scandals,” Mrs. Sandys replied quickly. “I am, as you know, 
a Socialist.” 

“I know you say you are one, dear.” Angela’s glance trav- 
elled round the room. “Have you ever thought what Campion 
would have felt about it?” 

“Certainly.” Mrs. Sandys coloured up. “I had a message 
through from him. Mr. Prence, a great friend of mine, is a 
wonderful medium, and during the time when I was studying 
spiritualism, was a great help. Campion said most emphatically 
that those who had passed over were all Socialists on the other 
side.” 

Miss Dubarry smiled resignedly, and for once said nothing. 
She knew that she was conferring a favour on her hostess and 
that her relative by marriage was in a different social sphere. 
She felt that her cursory glance round her bedroom had not 
promised any great comfort, and she was sure that the bed was 
hard, but for the moment she prepared herself to make the 
best of it, as though it was a billet about the occupation of 
which there was very little personal choice. Until the Oxheys 
were able to have her she must stay with Mrs. Sandys. 

Octavia Northmoor had not responded to the hints she had 
scattered as to a further stay in her house in Park Street, so 
she had impressed every one she met with her sense of duty in 
going to the wilds of Chelsea to befriend and console a relative 
by marriage. Angela had a reputation for kindness which she 
attended to carefully, and even believed in herself. At last 
she got up to go to her room. “Do I call the maid ‘Miss — 7 
what is it?” 

“If you don’t mind, Angela dear. You see, servants are 
so hard to get, and so difficult to keep if you do get them. And, 
after all, I don’t see any reason why . . .” 

“Of course, if it is the rule,” Angela replied. “Can I ring 
for her if I want her, and will she brush my clothes ?” 

“If you ask her, I’m sure she will,” Mrs. Sandys said with 
a stifled sigh. 

“What time do you dine, Katherine? I take about half an 
hour.” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 225 

“We don’t — I mean, I don’t have late dinner. Just a light 
meal, and please don’t dress.” 

“I think I would rather, if I may,” Miss Dubarry said 
pointedly. “It is so much more comfortable, isn’t it?” and she 
walked to the door. Mrs. Sandys heard her cross the little 
passage, and almost at once the register in the kitchen informed 
Georgie that Miss Dubarry required her assistance. 

Turning down her sleeves and washing her hands under the 
tap, she went quickly to answer the bell. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


Georgie was full of admiration for Angela as slie fastened her 
gauzy evening dress, and stood to look at the result of over 
half an hour’s attendance. The dress had been a gift from 
Octavia Northmoor, and fitted Miss Dubarry quite well. She 
had spoken very little to Georgie, except to give orders, but her 
admiration was so pleasantly spontaneous that Angela thawed 
slightly, and asked her what part of Ireland she came from. 
It was an awkward question to answer, and, with a decision 
which was born out of unconsidered impulse, Georgie replied 
that she came from Belfast. 

“You speak with a strong Cork accent,” Miss Dubarry re- 
marked pointedly; “but perhaps you have lived in the south?” 

Forced into explanation, and with a dreadful fear that Miss 
Dubarry would inevitably meet Lady Duncarrig and “tell on 
her,” Georgie again took liberties with the facts, and explained 
carefully that she had an aunt in Crosshaven who used to invite 
her there in her youth, so she had caught the local inflection. 
The traditions of Ardclare still lingered persistently in her 
mind, and Georgie believed that she was, as of old, “the talk 
of the world.” Had she stuck to the truth, it is very unlikely 
that Miss Dubarry would have given her another thought, but 
the egotism from which most mortals suffer led her into the 
path of danger. As it was, Angela discerned untruthfulness, 
and looked at her with cold scrutiny. She unbent so far as to 
tell Georgie that she also came from Ireland, and recited a 
short and brilliant list of the names of her own connections in 
that country, more from force of habit than any other reason. 
Georgie was the merest of mere servants, and beyond harbour- 
ing the suspicion that she was a liar, which argued that she had 
something to hide. Miss Dubarry was not interested in her. 

Mrs. Sandy s, changing her blouse for a jumper in her own 
room, was agitated and depressed. If Angela wanted to be 
waited upon she should have gone to an hotel. It was too 
bad to come to a tiny establishment and run the one and only 
maid off her legs. She decided that she must give her a hint, 

226 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


227 


though the bare idea of it alarmed her. Angela had a steady 
personality of the kind which is a polite menace. If Katherine 
Sandys offended her she would tell immensely long stories 
about her, during future visits to the aristocracy, and, Socialist 
as she was, Mrs. Sandys did not care to be made a by-word. 

Dinner was an hour late, and Angela, hard and handsome, 
and dressed as though she expected a footman to hand her 
silver dishes, sat and talked in an even, quiet voice of her 
own great worth in the world. Mrs. Sandys was accustomed to 
being called “wonderful,” and it annoyed her to hear some one 
else monopolise all the virtues with such complete assurance. 
But to break into the monologue was about as easy as it would 
be for a lame man to scale a ten-foot wall, and at last, when 
Georgie was handing the pudding plates, upon which a mess of 
rather burnt pudding was liberally spread, for Georgie had 
undertaken the helping herself, Mrs. Sandys spoke of Lousada. 

It was, in a way, a tactful move, as she wished to avoid the 
rather personal side of the issue, so she grasped a second during 
which Angela was silently engaged with her pudding, and asked 
her if she had ever met John Lousada. Miss Dubarry was 
interested. The Northmoors had done all they could to get hold 
of Lousada, and also the Oxheys. He knew the Duke well, but 
he was a strange creature, who seemed to elude all known 
beguilements, and Angela wondered very much how Katherine 
had managed to capture him at all. But Mrs. Sandys did not 
tell her. She reaped the advantages of a vague manner and 
slid away from direct questions, getting round them artfully 
enough for so simple-minded a woman. 

Mrs. Sandys and Angela parted for the night upon good 
terms, and Angela sat thinking for some time before she turned 
off the light, a fact which did not escape the notice of Mrs. 
Sandys, who frequently sat in the dark rather than be wasteful 
or extravagant. 

Mrs. Sandys had given a kind of fluid impression that Lousada 
was constantly at the flat, without putting it in so many words, 
and Angela wondered again whether he really came there to 
see Katherine, who was “out of things,” and who never went 
“anywhere.” In spite of her reputation for charity of speech 
and amiability of mind, Angela could be as critical as any quite 
ordinary mortal, and she did not think that any man could 
really be romantically in love with Campion Sandys’s widow. 
She clicked off the light at last, and thought the bed she lay 


228 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


on excessively hard. At the Northmoors’ the beds were pretty 
good, and at the Oxheys’ they were exceptionally comfortable, 
but the spare bed in Katherine’s flat was not unlike a plank, 
and she felt that it was a proof of great kindness that she 
should come and sleep on it. 

G'eorgie, in her tiny room, thought again and again of her 
last meeting with Lousada, and the blood rushed to her cheeks 
at the memory. She had begun to forget a great deal. Clint 
and The Gleanings were like a dream which was only real while 
it lasted, and even Dada and Ardclare were a long way off. 
Between her and these reflections from the mirror of her 
memory, John Lousada intervened, and stood looking down at 
her with his strong, straight eyes. In the days when she had 
not understood what cruelty was, she would have discarded 
pretences and faced the facts as they stood between her and 
Lousada, but her own experience of the inhumanity of life 
towards the weak or the poor had shaken her strong nerves. 
Even if their friendship was rooted in a deeper passion, it could 
not matter so long as they kept loyally faithful to their pledge 
of silence. Yet she could not cease thinking of him, and won- 
dered what she would do when he went away again. It seemed 
as though his departure was imminent, and he could not tell 
when he might return. 

And the future? What of the future? There were no For- 
tunate Isles marked on their map ; to think of such places was 
only to encourage a mocking dream, but Georgie did think 
of them. She had her own share of the mysticism of her 
country and a touch of purple magic in her soul. Perhaps 
things would come right. Romance was alive in her, and she 
knew that every one who claims a share in the glory of the gods 
must pay for it to the wardens of the earth world; and then 
she suddenly remembered Eustace Clint. Not as any vague 
memory of some one once known, but with stark realism. The 
sweet, strong scent of the hair-wash he used, and the con** 
quering way he had when he had loved her; the intimacy of 
their life and its endless effect upon herself, recurred to her, 
torturing her memory and making her eyes smart with hot 
tears. She had seemed to be his then, because of that wretched 
sense of having loved him, and now, if she could forget those 
searing memories, he was less to her than the recent grocer’s 
assistant, who had reminded her of poor Finney. How did one 
escape? Clint had been to many others just what he had been 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


229 


to her, save for the day when they stood side by side in the 
little church at Ardclare and promised hopefully to live to- 
gether in love until their lives' end. 

As Georgie saw it, the promise still remained. With or 
without Eustace, she was his wife, closed out, it is true, from 
any real status it conveyed, scrubbing, cooking and working 
for her daily bread, living a hard life in hiding and keeping 
up the pretence with Dada for the sake of all it meant to him, 
and with no intention of ever returning to The Gleanings again. 
She knew she was Georgie Desmond, not Georgie Clint, but the 
knowledge did not absolve her. And then, there was John 
Lousada. Even though he made all the difference to her, she 
was pledged by the past to live under the law of restraint and 
to keep the expression of anything warmer than friendship 
out of her eyes and heart. Love was forbidden to her, even if 
the world was a grey place without its radiance and glory. 
There must be no dallying with precious thoughts and dreams 
because of the after reckoning with herself. Lousada could 
not understand this, yet if the whole world either applauded or 
vilified her, Georgie was painfully conscious of the strength of 
her own judgments. r ‘I did but taste a little honey with the 
end of the rod that was in mine hand, and lo! I must die.” 

She tossed on her small bed, and the fever of many thoughts 
kept her wakeful. She had caught a glimpse of immensities 
hidden by the routine of the day’s work, and they startled her, 
and she felt like a somnambulist who wakens to find himself 
standing on a high tower where on every side there is danger. 
Miss Dubarry might discover who she was; Mrs. Clint might 
come again to the flat and denounce her as an impostor who 
had run away from a loving husband and a happy home; Lady 
Duncarrig might happen upon the story and carry it to Ard- 
clare, and that was of all her thoughts the most bitter. Georgie 
knew what her fate would be once she was at the mercy of the 
gossips. How they would talk, and how they would rend her in 
pieces and accuse her of every kind of baseness. They would 
condole with Dada, pretending that they pitied him, and rejoice 
greatly over her downfall. One or two would perhaps suspend 
their judgments, but they would be hurt and distressed because 
she had told them nothing. In her heart she repeated the cry 
which has gone up from many others : “Why can’t they all leave 
me alone?” 

Even Dada would not understand at all. Dada wouldn’t like 


230 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


to think ill of Eustace, and the story of Averil would he too 
shocking for his ears. How could one tell Dada such a thing ? 
He always got up and went out of the room if you said anything 
he did not like. She pulled herself together determinedly. 
After all, there was no more reason for her to be afraid now 
than there had been, and she was foolish and cowardly to let 
her imagination get away with her like this. It was already 
long past midnight, and the mournful sound of the church clock 
in the distance made her count the hours that remained in 
which to capture some sleep. Already it was the day when 
Lousada was coming to tea, and though she could hardly expect 
more than to see him, it was something definite to look forward 
to, and the humour of the situation caught Georgie’s mind and 
blew away the brooding shadows like a spring wind. She 
laughed a little, her face in her pillow, and she thought of 
Angela, and how interested she had become when John’s name 
was mentioned. Angela was very handsome still, in her dark, 
hard-featured way, and she had certainly the cut of a deter- 
mined woman. 

At length Georgie drifted vaguely into the world of dreams 
and awoke considerably later than usual, to hear Mrs. Sandys 
knocking on her door and demanding rather irritably whether 
she was ill. 

Georgie sprang out of bed. “I’ll be ready in a moment, Mrs. 
Sandys.” She splashed her face with cold water and dressed 
herself at top speed, neglecting to say her prayers, which was 
a very unusual oversight with her. 

Mrs. Sandys was in her dressing-gown, boiling the kettle 
on a gas-ring in the kitchen, and she looked wan and esoteric in 
the yellow electric light. “Miss Dubarry always has tea early,” 
she said with a touch of angry resignation. “I thought I had 
told you so.” 

“I slept it out. I’m awfully sorry, Mrs. Sandys. I can’t 
think what happened to me. It’s too bad, you to be getting 
out of bed this way.” 

Wrapping her oriental neglige around her, Mrs. Sandys with- 
drew silently, for she was thoroughly out of temper, and could 
not very well make it known to Angela. 

Breaking a cup in her haste, Georgie assembled the morning 
tea-set on a tray, and hurried ofi to awaken Miss Dubarry. 
“The tea’ll be cold if you don’t drink it,” she said, drawing 
back the curtains, “and the breakfast’s sharp at nine o’clock.” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


231 


Angela moved in the gloom and took no notice of Georgie, 
who looked at her, wondering whether in such circumstances 
it was etiquette to shake the bed-post. She decided to let Miss 
Dubarry sleep on, and return when breakfast was ready to call 
her to a sense of the passing time. 

A weariness seized upon Georgie as she did the shopping 
that morning round the small shops at the far end of King’s 
Road. Everything looked tossed and squalid, and there was 
a sense of dejection in the very air she breathed. It was one 
of those days when we need all our courage, not to face 
giants or fight advancing armies, but to stand against the en- 
croachments of life itself. It seemed to her that the very 
vegetables lying in rank heaps in the greengrocer’s shop felt 
her own weariness, and, adding their quota, threw it back 
upon her. The meat she bought was dreadfully dead, and the 
fish-shop exhibited limp corpses of strange contours that dis- 
tressed her imagination. 

There was Miss Dubarry’s room to do when she got back, 
and it meant a race against time, for Angela had left her 
clothes lying about all over the chairs and floor, and the room, 
with its unopened windows, reeked of scent. Miss Dubarry 
was in the drawing-room, writing letters at Mrs. Sandys’s table, 
which Georgie knew was likely to cause a good deal of un- 
pleasantness, for she seemed to have thrown much of Mrs. 
Sandys’s correspondence on to the floor. But through all her 
rush and activity, the thought of Lousada followed her, and 
she kept on catching it back to her and reviving her spirits with 
the reflection that anyhow she would at least open the door to 
him. 

Just as luncheon was at last prepared, Georgie was rung 
for by Miss Dubarry, who held out a packet of letters and a 
shilling. 

“Will you go to the post office and send these for me?” she 
said, with a smile of much sweetness. “The one on the top, 
addressed to Lord Warnfield at the British Embassy in Rome, 
must be registered.” 

“Will it do after the lunch?” Georgie asked doubtfully. “You 
see, there’s the back-door bell, and unless I’m there meself the 
boys won’t wait. They’re awfully impatient.” 

Miss Dubarry thought for a moment, and looked slightly 
taken aback. “They are all very important,” she said slowly, 
“and ought to go at once.” 


232 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


“I could run out now if you’d not mind answering the 
hack door,” Georgie said firmly. “Mrs. Sandys will surely 
be late, and so that’d be all right.” 

“I suppose I could.” Angela arched her eyebrows and 
sighed. “What do I say to them if they come?” 

“Just take in the parcels, and if they give any of their sauce 
let them have as good as they brought. They’re awfully cheeky. 
Miss Dubarry, and it’s no use letting them think they’ve got 
the upper hand of you.” 

Again Miss Dubarry considered the question. “Perhaps I 
had better post my own letters,” she said stiffly. “You didn’t 
happen to find a book of stamps when you tidied my room?” 

“Not a sign of it.” Georgie was nettled by something in 
her manner. 

“Really? You are quite sure?” 

“It wasn’t there, so far as I know. Would you like me to 
look again to see if it’s in it?” 

“Don’t trouble,” Angela replied. “I left it on the dressing- 
table.” As she spoke, Mrs. Sandys came rushing in. She had 
recovered her old eagerness at a board meeting, and was in a 
good mood. 

“My dear Angela, I hope I’m not late,” she said, making 
vague, apologetic motions with her hands. “We had Major 
Bairdsly in the chair, and he gave us a wonderful lecture.” 
She smiled. “What a splendid man he is, so full of love and 
humanity; he radiates health and healing.” 

“I wanted my letters posted,” Angela said, looking at the 
pile of envelopes in her hand. “I had to use your notepaper, 
Katherine dearest, though I do not know what Warnfield will 
think when he sees that rather strange heading to the paper I 
used.” 

“Oh!” Mrs. Sandys looked at the wreck of her writing- 
table and grew less affectionate and happy. “I see you’ve writ- 
ten on the League paper. Well, I hope it may make him think. 
The statistics at the top are the numbers of illegitimate births 
for each of the past ten years.” 

Georgie, who had stood by the door, watched an expression 
of cold, horror cross Miss Dubarry’s face as she stared blankly 
at Mrs. Sandys. 

“Katherine, what awful notepaper you use!” she said in a 
voice of dismay, and as Georgie withdrew she heard a gentle 
strife of tongues ensue, carried on quite politely, but with a 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


233 

touch of acrimony behind the smooth speech and the con- 
stant use of the words “dear” and “dearest.” 

Lousada arrived punctually, and Georgie, who had been wait- 
ing in the kitchen, was on her way to open the door when Mrs. 
Sandys came out of the drawing-room and told her that she 
need not trouble herself. It was a bitter disappointment, more 
bitter than Georgie could have guessed it might be, and she 
retreated to the kitchen and put on the kettle. The one per- 
son in all the world whom she wished to see, except Dada, was 
in the next room, and convention made it impossible for her 
to speak to him. They might be divided by leagues of sea, 
so completely was she shut out from him. Her eyes filled with 
tears. After all, John Lousada was her friend; they had met 
most creditably under Lady Duncarrig’s roof, and he had been 
staunch and true in adversity. Mrs. Sandys would never have 
known him had it not been for her, and now she took advan- 
tage of her humble position and locked her out. She could 
hear voices speaking to him and the deep, occasional sound 
of his reply. He was not pleased to be there; that much she 
knew, and could he have done so, he would have left them and 
come into the kitchen. But it was galling in the extreme, and 
she moved about restlessly, unable to sit still and think. Mrs. 
Sandys would ring the bell when tea was required, and she 
awaited the summons with increasing impatience. 

At a little before five o’clock the drawing-room door opened, 
and Mrs. Sandys herself appeared, looking rather nervous 
and hunted. She said that she would carry in the tray her- 
self so as to save Georgie the trouble; but she avoided her eyes 
as she spoke, and seemed in a great hurry. “I am afraid Miss 
Dubarry gives you a lot of extra work since she came,” she said. 
“I must do what I can to help you. Miss Desmond.” 

Georgie made no reply. She wondered why it was that Mrs. 
Sandys always avoided the clear issue. If she had said, “I 
don’t intend you to see Mr. Lousada,” it would at least have 
had all the merit of frank speech, and one could have borne 
it better, but to make out that it was a favour, deliberately be- 
stowed out of kindness, seemed, to say the least of it, so cheap 
and futile. She did not thank Mrs. Sandys, but went silently 
into the scullery and pressed her hands over her eyes. 

Well, after all, what matter? she asked herself. She could 
meet him in spite of them, and now she had determined not 


234 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


to make any attempt to see him before he left the flat. She 
could and would see him again when Mrs. Sandys was not 
there to intervene. It was cold and miserable in the scullery, 
and she stayed there with a kind of defiance. 

After a time she heard the kitchen door open, and her heart 
leapt violently. Perhaps, after all, Lousada had been one too 
many for them, and had broken away of his own accord. She 
opened the scullery door, and her sweep of emotion died down 
again. Once more it was Mrs. Sandys. 

“Will you run out to post Miss Dubarry’s letters f” she asked 
with excessive politeness. “She is very anxious they should 
go to-day. The one on the top of the pile — dear me, what a 
pile it is! — is for Lord Warnfield, and is to be registered. Will 
you do this, and bring back the slip carefully, please, Miss Des- 
mond? You didn’t happen to see a book of stamps in Miss 
Dubarry’s room this morning?” 

“I did not,” Georgie said, with a marked absence of her 
usual cheerfulness. 

“Be as quick as you can. Fresh air will do you good,” Mrs. 
Sandys added, and she left the room with a return of fugitive 
haste. 

Georgie put on her hat. and coat and went out, closing the 
door with a bang. She was alight with sudden anger against 
Mrs. Sandys and Angela. They had taken a mean advantage 
of her, even though it was all foolish enough. The very idea 
of their locking Lousada in the small drawing-room was in 
itself ridiculous — like tying up Niagara or shutting the west 
wind in a band box. Only that morning she had thought of the 
possibility of sending Lousada away herself, telling him with 
full honesty that she cared a great deal too much, and that, 
as Clint’s wife, she must not see him any more. But now her 
mood had changed. She might, it was true, give him up of 
herself; but to be jockeyed out of a few kindly words from 
him was an outrage upon personal liberty. She thought that 
if she hurried she might still be back in time to see him, so 
she ran down the wet pavement and stood in the stifling post 
office, where all the rain-drenched people in the neighbourhood 
appeared to have assembled, and waited her turn while the 
face of the clock mocked at her impatience, and at length the 
letter to Lord Warnfield was duly registered and the flimsy 
slip handed over to Georgie. She put it in the bag which hung 
at her wrist and turned to go, hurrying back between the 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


235 

high houses, one harassed little soul in the great concourse of 
the streets. 

When she reached the flat the drawing-room door was open, 
and Angela and Mrs. Sandys were standing together at the 
fire talking in discreetly low voices. Of Lousada there was 
no sign at all, and Georgie felt a long sigh escape from her. 

“I have the letters posted,” she said dully, “and here’s the 
slip.” She fumbled in her bag. “At least, I know I put it 
there, wherever in the world it’s got to now.” 

Angela looked at her and waited patiently. “I should like 
to have it,” she said. “It is a very important letter.” 

“I’m awfully sorry, but I can’t find it,” Georgie turned her 
bag inside out in a vain search. “Still, the letter’s registered, 
so it should be all right.” 

“How very awkward,” Mrs. Sandys remarked as she looked 
at Georgie. “I must say, Miss Desmond, that it seems very 
careless on your part.” 

But there was nothing to be done about it, except to offer to 
go back to the post office and get a copy made out, and nr the 
tea things had to be washed and dinner cooked this did not 
seem possible. 

“Another time,” Angela said, as Georgie tendered an apology, 
“it may be better if I go myself,” and she sent a most informing 
look in the direction of Katherine Sandys. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


“Do you really think there is something wrong about Miss Des- 
mond?” Mrs. Sandys asked the question tentatively as, at the 
end of the first week of her visit to Katherine, Angela sat 
close to the fire and did nothing. When she had finished her 
voluminous correspondence in the morning she usually went to 
the house of some friend or relative, and was taken to a con- 
cert or a matinee, and was then returned in a spacious car 
to the flat, and in the evenings she established herself in a chair 
and talked a great deal. 

“The first time I ever spoke to her she told me a lie,” Angela 
said judicially. “Quite a stupid lie, dear Katherine, because 
she told me she came from Belfast.” 

“She may — after all,” Mrs. Sandys objected. “I, for in- 
stance, was born in Vienna, but it hasn’t made me an Austrian.” 

Angela shook her carefully dressed head. “When Mr. Lou- 
sada asked if he could go into the kitchen and talk to your 
maid, I really thought the end of the world had come.” 

“They met in Ireland,” Mrs. Sandys said rather helplessly. 
“Miss Desmond’s father is — I really forget what — but some- 
thing to say to the church.” 

“Probably a sexton,” Miss Dubarry suggested. “Katherine, 
with your views — even with your views — it is hopelessly wrong 
to entourage that type of liaison. I told you that I thought 
Mr. Lousada interesting, but we know very well that to ask 
to speak to your maid was going too far. I met him to-day at 
the Sheltons’, and when he spoke to me I think he must have 
understood what I felt about him.” 

<r L didn’t explain,” Mrs. Sandys broke in. “You see, I gave 
her permission to have a man to tea. It is far better to regu- 
larise these affairs — and then, to my great surprise, it turned 
out that he was Mr. Lousada. He was very charming, and I 
asked him . . .” 

Angela flung Mrs. Sandys’s remarks aside with steady deter- 
mination. “For a man of his class to carry on an intrigue 
with a servant is disgusting. I told Moira Shelton, and she was 

236 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


237 

scandalised. She said she considered it to be rather your 
fault.” 

“My fault?” Mrs. Sandys flickered up into resentment. “I 
really do call that too bad. How is it my fault ?” 

“You gave him some kind of permission to meet her, I sup- 
pose. Be clear about it, dearest. You know nothing of the 
woman, do you? References, I mean, and so on?” 

“I didn’t trouble. At the moment I was without any one, 
and the girl who had been here was dreadfully impertinent. 
Miss Desmond is cheerful and attractive, and I took her. In- 
deed,” she added earnestly, “except for the fact that Mr. Lou- 
sada has been here, there is nothing whatever against her. She 
does her work, and I certainly can’t find fault with her.” 

“Then she may have been anything before she came to you? 
And this cock-and-bull story of having met John Lousada in 
Ireland — my dear, I know that he was there once, staying with 
the Duncarrigs. Is it likely they would have met at Ard- 
clare?” She laughed a quiet, contemptuous laugh. “You 
don’t know the Duncarrigs if you imagine that they invite the 
servants into the dining-room. However, I intend to sift the 
question and find out whether she was one of the maids in 
the house. Mr. Lousada may have met her carrying up the 
hot water and taken a fancy to her. There was an awful scandal 
about Willie Gregg, Lady Emily Campion’s son, which began 
in much the same way. She was a housemaid, probably, if she 
was there at all.” 

“She said they met at a party.” 

“She said? I should think she did. My impression is that 
she will say almost anything.” 

The conversation about Georgie wound in and out through 
a maze of sinuous curves and bends, Mrs. Sandys following 
reluctantly upon Angela’s steady leading. For some reason, 
Angela was angry with Katherine’s maid, and determined that 
Mrs. Sandys should get rid of her; but Mrs. Sandys had a 
mulish obstinacy in her which resisted assault. Putting aside 
the question of Lousada, or even admitting that Georgie’s 
friendship with him was inadvisable, she had not the smallest 
desire to send her away. 

It struck her as odd that Miss Dubarry should take such a 
strongly personal attitude in the contest, and also that she 
seemed to dislike Georgie so intensely. With no abatement of 
her ever dignified reserve, Angela flogged the subject with un« 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


238 

remitting violence. Every prejudice she had seemed to spring 
into active life at the mere mention of Georgie’s name, and she 
gathered her forces for her overthrow. 

“One would think that the girl had been rude to you,” Mrs. 
Sandys remarked. “I hope she has not.” 

“Rude to me?” Miss Dubarry opened her eyes wide. “Of 
course not, Katherine. I should never give a person of her class 
the least opportunity for impertinence. I am sure that she is 
not a Protestant; you can simply feel that she is not, and I 
only warn you out of consideration for you.” 

“I do not understand religious bigotry,” Mrs. Sandys said in 
an exhausted voice. “It is all the same to me what superstition 
she holds. I can’t follow you at all, Angela.” 

“It’s easy to see that you have never lived in Ireland,” Miss 
Dubarry replied, with a rather grim look, and then they spoke 
of other things. 

Georgie was not aware of what was going on in the mind 
of Miss Dubarry. She knew that she was exacting and diffi- 
cult to please, and that life in the flat had altered for the 
worse since her arrival. Everything was less punctual than it 
had been, and the weekly books rose in their total in spite 
of valiant efforts to keep them down. Mrs. Sandys was con- 
stantly out of temper with her, and had lost all her original 
friendly attitude, and Georgie did not know that, in spite of 
this, she fought her battles with great loyalty. But she was 
disgruntled and irritated, and the increased expenses made her 
critical towards Georgie, because Angela had told her again 
and again that Irish servants were wasteful, and that they 
could not be trusted with stores. 

All her life Katherine Sandys had suffered from not knowing 
her own mind. She had married Campion because a friend 
of her own fell in love with him and impressed her with the 
idea that he was the most wonderful man on earth. Later 
on, she had rather changed her view of him because another 
friend who was an active leader of the Women’s Suffrage Cam- 
paign felt that all men were poor creatures, and in her re- 
ligious and emotional evolution Katherine had been a human 
chameleon changing colour according to the background upon 
which she was placed. 

With Georgie the time passed heavily. A line from Lousada 
told her that his effort to see her the day he came to tea at 
the flat had been a failure., and he invited her to dine with him 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 239 

the first evening she could get free from her duties. Towards 
the end of the week following his*visit, Angela was invited out 
to dinner, and this was a far more rare occurrence than would 
seem probable with anyone who .devoted a lifetime to friend- 
ships. Georgie heard the whole conversation which took place 
over the telephone, and sounded rather as though Miss Du- 
barry was invited to stop a gap. That, however, was a very 
minor detail in the eyes of Georgie, and she managed to get 
out and ring up Lousada, giving him the joyful news that she 
would be free that night. 

“Th’ Angel from Heaven is going to dinner with some one 
in Park Lane,” she announced, speaking rapidly into the re- 
ceiver, as she stood in a dark and stuffy box in the nearest post 
office, “and as Mrs. Sandys has to go to a lecture and a coffee 
scrimmage, Pll be off for the evening, John. I’m just dying 
for a bit of fun. It’s been awfully dull lately. Every one as 
cross as the cats. What’s that? ... I said they were as cross 
as the cats. . . . Why stay, is it? ... I might be worse off. 
The girl on the flat above tells me that the two she looks after 
throw plates . . . crockery . . . peg the dishes at each other.” 

She smiled as she listened to his reply, and then spoke again. 
“In Jermyn Street? Isn’t that rather too grand? Oh, a quiet 
place? No fear of meeting any one I’d rather not meet. For 
the love of goodness don’t let me in for that. Very well. I’ll 
be there at about eight, when I’ve hooked th’ angel into her 
ball dress. Aren’t you mad to think you’re not to meet her? 
Or didn’t you make such a good impression after all ? I thought 
you’d not.” She hung up the receiver and ran out again into 
the street, meeting Mrs, Sandys, who got down from a bus. 

“I’d ran out of salt,” Georgie said glibly. 

Mrs. Sandys realised that the girl seemed gay and light- 
hearted again, and that was satisfactory. She also welcomed 
the news that Angela was dining out, when dhe heard it at 
lunch. 

“I’ve promised so often to dine with Luke and Mary,” Miss 
Dubarry said, looking excessively composed and dignified. 
“Some days ago I met Mary, who was full of reproaches. She 
said I neglected them shamefully. Luke has been made a Gen- 
eral, and one feels so proud to think that all his fine Staff 
work has been appreciated, though it was hard on him never 
to get to the trenches with his battalion. They are having a 


240 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


few friends — Captain Moreton and Danny Butt. Can you spare 
me, Katherine?” 

Mrs. Sandys said that she could spare Angela, as she was 
going to Caxton Hall to attend a meeting at which she might 
possibly have to propose a vote of thanks. She did her best 
to impress Angela with the importance of her announcement, 
but failed. 

“Poor dear Katherine,” Angela commented sympathetically, 
“how pious you are. I wish you could meet Luke, he would 
inspire you. The true type of soldier, but I know you don’t 
like soldiers. Danny Butt is a good little fellow, though very, 
middle-class, and to show you how broad-minded a man Luke is, 
he actually chose him for his A.D.O. against two men who had 
both been at Eton and were in the running for the job. Captain 
Moreton has quite a large place in Yorkshire, and only remains 
in the army because he likes the life.” 

“Likes killing people?” Mrs. Sandys said, with a flash of 
temper. “How horrid.” 

Angela looked at her pityingly. “ I suppose he has killed 
people,” she said. “But I did not mean that. I mean that 
he likes the life.” 

“So you said before,” Mrs. Sandys retorted. Angela was 
capable of repeating the same things to infinity, and her per- 
sonal details were as endless as they were dull. She could have 
gone on talking about Captain Moreton for hours if time per- 
mitted, and yet say nothing in the least arresting. 

In any case, the blessed fact remained that Angela was 
disposed of for an evening to Luke and Mary, and also to 
Danny Butt, who was of no consequence, and Captain More- 
ton, who had a place in Yorkshire and liked military life. 

Georgie saw Mrs. Sandys out of the flat, for she was the first 
to go. She wore a more ornate dress than usual and a long 
cloak which suited her very well; and she had bought a three- 
cornered hat that gave her the air of a rather holy highway- 
man. The effect was good, so good that Georgie commented 
on it. 

“Well, you do look nice,” she said. “There won’t be one 
there who will beat you, Mrs. Sandys, and I’ve noticed once 
or twice that the serious ladies often aren’t the best looking, 
but it’s very different with you, and when you were young 
you must have been a beauty.” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


241 


Mrs. Sandys was not used to compliments, and even though 
Georgie had rather seriously tempered her admiration by the 
reference to the passing years, she was quite pleased and told 
her not to be lonely. 

Having seen Mrs. Sandys out of the door, Georgie was called 
upon to assist the toilet of Miss Dubarry, who did not en- 
courage conversation until the process of dressing herself was 
nearly concluded, when she relented very slightly and told 
Georgie that she was going to dine with General and Lady 
Eramingham, who were her devoted friends, and whom she had 
rather neglected of late, and spoke also of Danny Butt and 
Captain Moreton, who had a place in Yorkshire. 

“Officers have a fine life,” Georgie said reflectively. “Now 
there’s nothing so nice as a regimental ball.” 

Angela glanced at her obliquely. “Were you ever at one?” 
she asked. 

“I’ve read about them.” Georgie flushed hotly, and thought 
of her own past glories. “In books and that.” 

Miss Dubarry made no reply, but picked up her gloves, and 
standing for Georgie to envelope her in a cloak which had 
once been worn by Lady Oxhey, she required her to call a 
taxi. 

It took a long time to get Angela Dubarry’s cab, and Georgie 
ran to and fro like a hunted hare amid the traffic of King’s 
Road. Time, which meant so much to her, almost as much as 
it must have meant to Cinderella, was flying, and never had 
there been such an obdurate collection of drivers or such a 
string of taxicabs, all carrying single and, to her mind, wickedly 
selfish individuals. The papers said that the war had made 
for comradeship, and that even magnificent private cars pulled 
up when they saw neglected people waving vainly from the pave- 
ment; but if this had ever been true, it was true no longer, 
and a good half-hour passed before Georgie at length captured 
an empty cab and drove back in it to the entrance of the block 
of flats. Miss Dubarry was in a thoroughly bad temper by 
the time she arrived, and hardly thanked her for her service 
as she pushed into the taxi and directed the driver to lose no 
time. Luke, Mary, Danny Butt and Captain Moreton, would 
all be waiting for her, and Luke was very particular about his 
food. 

Georgie watched her go with a sense of thanksgiving in her 


242 A RECKLESS PURITAN 

heart. At length the way was clear, and she conld run up and 
change her dress for a cheap little affair which was called a 
“restaurant gown” and was made of something nearly as 
flimsy as paper. She had pleasure in wearing it, and it suited 
her in spite of the fact that it was so obviously cheap. Her 
great power of enjoyment conquered its poverty, and as she 
glanced at herself, she decided that if it were not for her hat, 
she would look very nice. Her hat was such a failure that it 
damaged her whole appearance, and she thought longingly of 
a beautiful thing made of gold tissue and purple which Angela 
had received a day or two before, and which did not suit her in 
the least. The Duchess (which Duchess, Georgie never knew) 
had worn it when she opened a bazaar and had not liked it, 
so she sent it to Angela. 

For a second Georgie paused and considered. She knew 
where the hat was, and as the night was fine there was no rea- 
son to fear that an outing would do it harm. If she wore it 
she would look “reely nice,” and Lousada would be pleased. 
Miss Dubarry took up much of her time and had prevented her 
meeting him as she had done previous to her arrival. Why 
should she not make use of this aristocratic slave-driver, and 
get something out of her ? 

Again she hesitated. It was not “the thing” to borrow other 
people’s clothes. She looked ruefully at the hat she ought to 
have worn, and put it on, but there was no getting away from 
the fact that it made her whole effect common, and even bat- 
tered and vulgar, and without waiting to think of the moral 
questibn involved in her act, she crossed the passage and took 
the Duchess’s hat from its tissue paper wrappings. 

It was very becoming, and there was no time to stop and 
consider anything more. It may be that Satan is a hustler, in 
league with the clock, because of the awful abruptness with 
which all really dangerous things happen in this world. Any 
kind of physical smash rushes to its fulfilment at top speed. 
So Georgie was caught by the urgency and ardour of hurrying 
time, and the sight of her own reflection in a looking-glass. 

She pulled on her coat, which was the wrong shape and had 
been part of her trousseau, and running out of the room she did 
not even remember to switch off the electric light, which is, in 
every well-ordered establishment, a crime of the very greatest 
magnitude. She was inspired with a sense of having earned her 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


243 


pleasure, and she was badly after time as it was. To stop to 
consider whether she was behaving nicely in borrowing from 
the unconscious Angela, never occurred to her, and she ran on 
dancing feet towards the subway of the nearest Underground 
Station. 


CHAPTER XXV 


If Georgie had taken the law into her own hands and possessed 
herself of a hat to which she had no real claim, she was re- 
warded for her hardihood when she saw Lousada’s look of ap- 
preciation. He seemed quite overcome for a moment, and then 
he spoke. 

“You look very elegant, Georgie,” he said, leading the way 
to a small table in the corner of the restaurant. “What have 
you done, exactly? I’m no critic of detail, but the general 
effect is tremendous.” 

Georgie sat down and laughed as she glanced at him side- 
ways. 

“It’s my bright eyes, isn’t it?” she asked. “D’you like me 
hat, John?” 

He studied her attentively and decided that he did. “I sup- 
pose you bought it at a sale? It seems as if it was made of 
gold and might have come from a jeweller’s. What funny 
things women wear on their heads.” 

“I didn’t buy it all. I trimmed it myself,” she replied tri- 
umphantly. “Oh dear, it’s donkey’s years since I saw you, 
and I’ve been worked like a black ever since.” 

“Ah, you do know then, when I’m not there?” 

“Is it know ? I miss you” — she looked down quickly — “that’a 
the truth.” 

Lousada glanced round the restaurant impatiently. It was 
crowded with people, and who can really talk of the secrets 
of the heart in the fear of possible eavesdroppers? He was 
going away, and before he left he had a number of things to 
say to Georgie which should be said quietly and without inter- 
ruption. How long he might be absent he did not know, and 
he had no power to control his own movements. Whatever 
she felt about it, he wished to make sure that never again should 
she he left at the mercy of utter poverty, or drift penniless 
into some cruel condition of circumstances which would as- 
suredly befall her were she without friends or money. 

He had an uneasy feeling about Mrs. Sandys, and his visit 
244 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


245 


to the flat when he met Angela was not reassuring to him. 
When he had spoken of Georgie the whole atmosphere froze, 
and later, when he and Miss Dubarry had met again, he felt 
that she was likely to be more than a passive objector. It was 
all very small and insignificant, and Lousada was irritated by 
its futility and held by its petty power. Georgie was thralled 
to its significance, and the uneasy sensation that he could do 
so little to protect her, haunted him. 

“I have begun to think,” he said stormily, “that servants 
have less safeguards than any other class of women. Don’t 
laugh at me, Georgie, it’s quite true. Mrs. Sandys is omnipo- 
tent, hatefully so. She can make your life wretched all day 
long if she chooses, she can nag and bully you, and eventually 
deprive you of a — what is it? A ‘character,’ isn’t it? Turn 
you out with a month’s wages in your pocket and ruin you 
with any one else you go on to. It’s damnable.” 

“Y’ought to join the Slaveys’ Union and go about speaking 
on platforms,” Georgie said cheerfully. “It would be a fine 
draw, John, for I’m told that you’re awfully well known in 
society. Mrs. Sandys isn’t so bad at all, and once we get shut 
of the Angel we’ll all be happy again. The trouble with Mrs. 
Sandys is, that she’s as changeful as the winds, and gets per- 
suaded against herself.” 

“I’m very worried about you,” he said slowly. 

“Then worry away some other time,” she retorted. “Isn’t it 
little enough I see you as it is, to be filling the time with your 
old botherations. I came out for a bit of fun, reely I did, and 
you’re as dull as can be.” 

“Can’t you understand that I’m going away?” he asked des- 
perately, “and that I want something settled between us?” 

Georgie grew very pale and she pressed her lips together. The 
anguish of her heart was hard to conquer, but she rose against 
the inrush of pain and drove it back. “There’s no use going 
out to meet sorrow,” she said, choking down a quick sigh, “what 
good will it do either you or me ?” 

“If I didn’t care about you, even if you meant next to noth- 
ing to me, I should at least have the wish to make things a 
little more secure,” he said stubbornly. “Let us drop this ridicu- 
lous hypocrisy, Georgie.” He leaned across the table and put 
his hand over hers. “Look here, my girl, I love you. Why 
can’t I say so and have it out? You know it’s the truth, and 
when you know that, can’t you be honest ?” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


246 

Georgie turned her face from him and the laugh she gave 
had not a gay sound. “And all the waiters looking at you, 
John! You ought to be ashamed. Leave go my hand.” 

“You’ve not answered me,” he replied in the same low, earnest 
voice. 

“You’re forgetting one thing.” She looked towards him again 
and her face was set and firm. “I’m Eustace Clint’s wife.” 

“All this talk is moonshine — moonshine, Georgie,” Lousada 
said desperately. “I’m not asking you to run away with me, 
though God knows I’d give anything to think that you’d listen 
if I did. I’m only telling you that your present attitude is 
making my going away into sheer misery, as if one wasn’t 
wretched enough already. Clint drove you out, and I don’t 
see that you owe him anything — but let that be; at least you 
do owe me a little consideration. Am I nothing at all to you ?” 

Georgie nodded silently and her lips trembled. 

“Then if I am, let me do something. If I was to be in Lon- 
don and near you I wouldn’t ask this, because at least I do 
believe you’d come to me if you were in trouble, but can’t you 
realise that I may be away for months? I may have to go 
at any moment, and I shall quite likely be in some damned in- 
accessible place where I shall only get letters after weeks of de- 
lay. Oh, Georgie, I could shake you.” 

“You needn’t rub it in,” she said, in a voice which was hardly 
audible. “I know what it’s all going to mean to me, well 
enough. D’you think that I’ll not miss you ?” Her raised eyes 
met his and they looked silently at one another. 

“Then you won’t refuse to let me pay something into the 
bank for you?” he said after a moment. “Just for my own 
peace of mind? It will make life easier out there, and after 
all, it’s such a little thing to do.” 

She shook her head. “I don’t want that from you,” she said, 
and she fiddled with the crumbs on the table, making a pat- 
tern with her finger. “I might, right enough, John, if I didn’t 
care at all for you. You told me to be honest, and I’m being 
honest.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I love you every 
bit as well as you love me, and it’s wicked of me to feel as I 
do. There’s times when I get mad thinking of you, but I’ll 
not go back on my principles — even though they’re a terrible 
bother to me, and I’ll not go back on Dada. If I did I’d not 
know a day’s happiness in this life.” 

Lousada said nothing, and there was a long pause before 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 247 

Georgie spoke again. “That’s the way of it, John, and I’m 
awfully sorry, because you’ve got to suffer too.” 

“But is it going to be like this always?” he said, and his eyes 
told her how deeply moved he was. “Is there no hope ahead? 
Think of your own life and what it is. Can you face it and 
still say that you won’t give in? Listen, Georgie, I’m not 
pleading my case quite selfishly, because I’ll not come near 
you again if you tell me that you would rather I kept away; one 
can bear these things when one must. But let me at least have 
the happiness of knowing that you are safe. I can do that, and 
surely you haven’t theTieart to refuse?” 

She seemed to reflect over what he had said before she an- 
swered him. “I’ll sleep on it.” She gave a wistful and des- 
perately pathetic little smile. “Will that do ? I’d like to say 
a few prayers about it and see what I feel like after. I still 
say my prayers.” 

“Say one or two for me.” He returned her smile. “I expect 
I need them pretty badly.” 

“Oh, I’ll not forget to put in a good word for you.” She 
tossed her chin up and laughed again. “Make sure of that. 
Mrs. Sandys tells me that it’s all nonsense, but then I was 
brought up different. Glory!” She looked at the clock which 
was set in ornate moulding over a fire place, where a gas fire 
made great pretence to look as though it was made of logs of 
wood and coal. “Talk of Cinderella, John, I’ll have to fly or 
the skies will tumble.” 

She got up from her chair in real alarm, and he looked at 
the watch he wore on his wrist and realised that indeed it 
was dangerously late. “You must taxi back,” he said, “it’s the 
best way. Get your coat and join me outside.” 

Georgie took one more look at him as he walked down the 
lane between the tables, and her eyes were soft as she watched 
him go. He meant everything in the world to her, and the un- 
certainty of life haunted her for a second. To think if one 
parted like that, and the known order of events broke asunder 
with a cleavage which made the gulf impassable, so that one 
never met again . . . 

She hurried to the room where her coat was hanging on a 
peg, and looked with dazed eyes at the bare shoulders of the 
women who were coming in late. She and they were alike — 
human beings — swept onwards by the river of fate, but they 
did not seem to know this as they pushed, and stared at one 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


248 

another, or powdered their faces and arranged their hair. She 
had no time to linger or indulge in extravagant fancies, and giv- 
ing her ticket to the attendant she slipped into her coat and 
went back into the restaurant. 

It was nearly empty now, as all the people who had come for 
dinner had gone away, but the later arrivals were beginning to 
appear, and as she walked down the brilliantly lighted room, 
her heart stood still and the blood in her veins seemed to 
freeze; her knees trembled suddenly and she stopped mechani- 
cally, staring at a man who rose from his seat at a small table. 
He was not alone. The girl with him had pale blonde hair 
grotesquely curled and dressed, and her clothes, though expen- 
sive, were vulgar and loud in style. You could see any number 
of such as she at a hundred restaurants in London with noth- 
ing to distinguish one from the rest. At that moment she was 
admiring herself in a small mirror in her vanity bag. But it 
was not of her that Georgie thought. She was transfixed by 
the wild alarm which stirred her to the soul as Eustace Clint 
pushed back his chair and stood challenging her with his old 
look. 

Georgie gave one rapid glance around her and moved forward, 
but he barred her path. Once again he was terribly real to her, 
and she noticed the careful effect of his well-made clothes and 
the way his hair shone. She had been very proud of all this 
in the past, but a feeling of violent revulsion assailed her. 

“Georgie!” he said. ‘You at last! I always knew I would 
find you sooner or later.” 

The girl at the little table looked up, and her face grew petu- 
lant. Some one was interfering with her catch of the evening, 
and yet, in a place like that, she could not well make a scene. 

“I’ll not speak to you,” Georgie said, as she walked past 
Clint, who caught at her coat with his hand. He had been 
drinking a little, not sufficient to make him lose his sense of 
decency, but enough to make him careless of consequences. 

“I must speak to you,” he said rapidly. “Wait one moment, 
Georgie, and I’ll settle up this little affair.” He turned as he 
spoke and went back to the table, leaning on his hands and 
talking quickly, his eyes still on his wife.' It was her one 
chance, and Georgie took it. She hastened her pace and ran out 
into the street, her heart pounding violently and her whole 
soul centred on the one idea of escape. Having seen Clint 
made it frantically clear to her that she loathed him, and she 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


249 

even forgot Lousada in the trembling access of revolt which 
shook her from head to foot. Lousada was not there, and she 
ran on blindly until she had reached the entrance to the Hay- 
market Theatre, where an empty taxicab passed. 

Hailing it wildly, she stood panting in the strongly-lighted 
space under the pillars, and as the cab pulled up she realised 
that she was too late. Clint had gained on her and caught her 
once more by the arm. 

“Georgie,” he said violently, “Georgie, you must speak to 
me. It’s absurd of you to run away like this.” 

She released herself from his hold and got into the taxi. 
“Drive to the picture palace in King’s Road,” she said, and 
her own voice sounded breathless and strange, and the driver 
peered at them curiously. He was well used to unusual ex- 
hibitions of feeling as the hour grew late, and Clint held up a 
piece of money behind Georgie’s head. 

“Jump in,” he said with a laugh of offensive familiarity, and 
still he did not start until Clint had followed her into the taxi, 
and they slid quickly down the street. 

There was no escape now, and she drew back into the corner 
of the cab, shivering violently. It seemed so unbelievably 
strange that this should have happened, and Clint laughed as 
he caught her in his arms. 

“I’ll forgive you, Georgie,” he said, as she strained away 
from him wildly. “I’m not vindictive, though you’ve behaved 
damn badly, cutting out like this and hiding away.” 

“Leave go of me,” she said, pushing him back with her hands. 
“I can’t bear you, Eustace. There’s the past between us, and 
nothing I know of has changed all that you did. Even to-night 
you were with a queer kind of a girl.” 

“Well?” he drew back, and she knew he was angry. “What 
if I was? You chucked me over and left me. Did you ex- 
pect me to go into a monastery ? Good God, when I think of the 
utterly heartless way you’ve treated me, I wonder at you.” 

“I’ve done with you,” she said sullenly. Her thoughts went 
off to Lousada, and she wondered what had happened to him. 
He must have gone far afield to look for an empty taxi at 
that crowded hour, and now he was looking for her, and seek- 
ing her in vain. Here she was, shut up in close proximity to 
Clint, with no hope of getting away. When they came to the 
picture palace she must get rid of him somehow. Once he knew 
where she lived it would be impossible for her to remain there 


250 A RECKLESS PURITAN 

any longer, and homelessness and a dread of what lay ahead 
turned her cold. 

“Done with me?” he laughed, and spoke in his* slow, la- 
boured way. “I rather think not. Copie now, Georgie, old 
girl, let bygones be bygones. I’m asking no questions,” he 
pinched her arm with significant suggestion; “give me that 
much credit.” 

“I left you for reason, and Pll not go back,” she replied. 
“Eustace, haven’t you a glimmer of fairness in you? Since 
ever I went away, I’ve been at honest work.” 

*Tve missed you,” he said, and she felt that he spoke truly 
enough, “often and often I’ve missed you. I put at least a 
dozen advertisements in the papers, asking you to write. There 
is my side to the question. Remember that.” 

“Is it that you want me to forgive you ?” she asked dully. 

“Yes. Why, of course I do, Gee, it was only a passing feeling 
I had for that girl. She’s an awful little cat,” he added. “I’ll 
take you right away and we’ll have a second honeymoon” — 
again he tried to draw her into his arms. “If there have been 
one or two since, that was your fault, wasn’t it? Kiss me, 
Georgie, and don’t be a silly little goose.” 

Again she struggled with him violently. “I’ll forgive you,” 
she said, her voice breaking on the words, “but I’ll not come 
back. You don’t understand me at all. You think a kiss and 
a few soft words are enough to make all square between us, 
and that I’ll go home with you again.” She was panting under 
the tight grasp of his hands. “I despise you, Eustace, it’s 
no good me saying I don’t. You’re as cruel as death, and it’s 
not me you’re thinking of, but yourself. Oh, let me go, let me 
go!” 

“Let you go?” he withdrew his arms, and his temper flared 
up suddenly. As he saw it, he had behaved with great mag- 
nanimity. He was asking her to come back and be his wife 
while he suspected that her own record had been, quite pos- 
sibly, a tarnished one. She was alone at a restaurant, obviously 
well dressed, for he had noticed the Duchess’s hat, and the very 
idea of it piqued and intrigued him tremendously. Her former 
“holiness,” as he called it, had been a worry. She had been so 
shockable and so innocent, and he did not care for innocence 
for long, but even so she had managed to charm him in some 
indefinable way. To recapture her under such bizarre condi- 
tions appealed to him, and he felt that this was a romance along 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


251 


lines he could understand. Having seen her, he felt his old 
sense of possessorship rise in his heart, and he wanted her to 
come back again. As his wife, possibly the situation was a 
wash-out, but that didn’t much matter, because he would cer- 
tainly have the whip hand of her, and his main feeling remained 
one of conquest. 

“Let you go?” he repeated. He was outraged by her words, 
staggered, astonished and angry. “What do you mean? I find 
you drifting about the streets, dressed up as you are, and I ask 
you what most men in my position would think? In spite of 
that, I am prepared to take you back. Oh, look here, drop 
that ridiculous talk of my sins and shortcomings, and be sane, 
for God’s sake.” 

“You can think anything you like,” she said apathetically. 
“What you think makes no difference to me one way or the 
other. I’ll not go back.” 

“If you had a shred of decent feeling,” he went on, raging 
at her, “you’d be down on your knees, thanking me. I call it 

pretty decent to make the offer I have, and you ” he waved 

his hands with a helpless movement of despair. “I should 
have thought that by this, you’d know which side your bread 
was buttered, if nothing else. What have you been doing, since 
you are out for facts? Why do I find you as I did? Were you 
dining with a man who cleared off?” 

Georgie’s eyes were turned to the window. It was late, and 
circumstances were becoming more and more complicated for 
her. In a few minutes they would have reached their destina- 
tion, and Clint must not follow her to the flat. Her agitation 
grew, and she sought in her mind for some possible way to 
avert this menace. 

“I was doing nothing wrong,” she said in a low, suppressed 
voice. “Y’ought to know me better than that. But meeting 
you so unexpectedly has upset me, Eustace.” 

“Oh, has it?” he sat stiffly beside her and stared at her pro- 
file. 

“I wish you’d be sporting,” she said, half pleadingly. “I 
don’t want you to know where I’m living — my place of 
business ” 

Clint made a sound of disgust and shrugged his shoulders. 

“It’s honest work, and ’twould get me into trouble if you 
came there. I’d be sacked. They’re awfully particular. Don’t 
be hard over this, will you?” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


252 

“You’re lying,” lie replied. He seemed to have made up 
his mind about something, and his brevity was alarming in a 
man who usually talked far too much. 

“HI write to you,” she went on. “I give you my word, and 
I’ll not break it. Will you part from me now and let me go, 
if I promise you that much ?” 

The cab stopped with a jerk, and Clint opened the door and 
got out, telling the driver to wait, and together they stood on 
the pavement. 

“After all,” he said, looking at her, “I acted rather impul- 
sively. It’s pretty beastly to find you out like this, and needs 
thinking over. I offered to forgive you and take you back, and 
you refused me. How, look here, Georgie, I’m easy going and 
all that, but I don’t want you to count on my asking you 
twice. I shall have to go into the question — I mean, I really 
must know what you’ve been doing ; it makes it all much more 
difficult because I have others to think of. My mother and 
Eleanor. I acted on the spur of the moment, and because I’d 
missed you,” he looked away for a second, and then looked back 
at her. “If you want money, I’ll give it to you. Anything 
rather than let you go on like this — you, know where it ends? 

All right for a bit, but later on ■” he broke off again, and 

she stood silently waiting for him to finish. “You tried to 
bluff, and I’m not sure that I blame you. Put the boot on my 
foot and all that, and yet it lost you your chance with me.” 

“I want nothing but to be left alone,” she said. “Are you 
done with me yet, Eustace?” 

He put his hand on her arm, the light falling strongly on 
his handsome face. “In trying to bluff me you lost your 
chance,” he said again. “If you’d given in at once, you’d 
have got me back. I’m telling you this to show you how stupid 
you are. You ought not to have given me time to think it 
over. Why, in God’s name, you should like such a life, defeats 
me, but it is evident that you do, and I don’t see that I can 
be blamed In any way. You can go, Georgie, but I must make 

you a fair allowance. It’s so awful to think of you ” he 

winced and his eyes were full of pain. “Chuck it, and try some- 
thing decent. Go back to your father and live there quietly. 
There, don’t start lying to me again, it’s no use; no good , don’t 
you understand? I know too much about this kind of thing.” 
He took some notes out of his pocket-book and pushed them 
into her hand. “Try to keep off it for a few weeks, anyhow. I 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


253 

suppose I shall have to see my solicitors to-morrow ■” again 

he grew reserved. ‘Til have to get the thing cleared. You 
promised you’d write, and I must know your address in the 
event of proceedings.” He was smitten with sorrow for her 
as she still remained quite silent, and the hurrying crowd 
jostled them as they passed. “Perhaps, if you pull up, some 
fairly decent fellow might marry you.” 

“Is it accuse me so’s to get shut of me for good?” she asked, 
like a woman speaking in a dream. “That’s the queerest thing 
out yet, Eustace,” and she laughed suddenly. “Can you do it 
as easy as all that? Surely if all the people who go out to 
dinner can he taken up for it, London’s a bad place for a bit 
of fun.” She fingered the notes. “And these? I don’t want 
them. Give them to the girl you left at the restaurant who, I 
s’pose, earns them.” She dropped them on the pavement, and 
he snatched them up angrily. 

“Oh, I’m done with you,” he said disgustedly. “The fellow 
you dine with pays well for it, I suppose. Mind you, I’m 
going to have your address. I’ll follow you if necessary. I 
don’t trust you a yard.” 

“Have you a pencil?” she asked quietly, and he handed her 
one, “and a card? I’ll write my address on it, and you can 
follow along in the taxi and see me go inside. All I do ask 
from you is that you’ll not raise a row.” 

Clint nodded silently and took the card from her, giving 
instructions to the driver, who seemed to enjoy the whole pro- 
ceeding in a cynical and abstracted fashion of his own. Georgie 
felt oddly stunned and unlike herself as she hurried along the 
dark side street, the cab following her, and she stood for a sec- 
ond at the entrance before she went in. 

Eustace Clint watched her vanish, and the cab turned and 
took him back westwards. He was feeling dreadfully shaken 
by the experiences of the evening, and he realised that he had 
all but fallen into a trap. His emotion upon discovering Georgie 
had played havoc with his common sense and judgment, and if 
she had not been so foolish the results might have meant dis- 
aster. As it was, he had the narrowest of narrow shaves. He 
recalled the story of his friend Armstead who had been spoken 
to by his own wife at a night club, and had done all he could 
for her, but could not take her back. No one could take a 
woman back in the circumstances. Yet he had offered to do 


254 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


it himself in a moment of weakness. So had Armstead, but 
upon reflection he had found that he could not. 

Georgie had gone under. All she said was untrue, and she 
had tried to be too clever. Now, the best thing to do was 
to get rid of her as quickly and quietly as he could. He did 
not want to be vindictive, and he was honestly sorry about it. 
Tears came to his eyes as he thought of it all. His own rather 
wide acquaintance with the class which he believed Georgie had 
chosen to join, made him all the more sorry, and also more 
than ever sure that there was nothing for it but a divorce and a 
decent pension. He was a man with a fairly big position to 
maintain, and his wife must be something very different from 
a woman who hung about a restaurant seeking for clients. 

He wiped his face with his handkerchief. It was all sicken- 
ing to think of, and who could dream that Georgie would have 
sunk to this? 

“My God!” he said to himself with deep feeling. “How 
nearly I let myself in,” and he thought that he would ring up 
his solicitors the first thing in the morning and go and have 
a talk with them. But the thought of Georgie haunted him. 
She had stood to him for an immeasurable kind of sanctity, 
and he saw her face as he had last seen it under the glaring 
headlights of the foyer of the picture palace. The whiteness 
of it, and the faint red of her parted lips. There was so much 
suffering marked on it now, and yet he said to himself that 
she had retained her strange delicacy in spite of her trade. 

The remembrance affected him profoundly. If the life she 
seemed determined to go on with had not eaten into her and 
corroded her yet, no wonder that in those few moments she 
had reimposed her old power over his heart. Why did she 
look so ridiculously good, under that garish hat, all feathers and 
gold lace, having freely chosen a life of vice and disorder? 
Who knew better than he the exact meaning of it all? She 
was in her cheap tawdry flat by this time, recounting, perhaps, 
the story of the evening to the man who had bought her, and 
the whole thing was a nightmare of horror. Some fundamental 
feeling in him was stirred, so that what he had once regarded 
as a joke or a necessity appeared suddenly very loathsome and 
repugnant. 

“I would have saved her,” he reminded himself; “it is none 
of my doing,” and he got out of the cab and walked into 
his hotel, feeling far more virtuous than was usual with him. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


Georgie was still trembling when she arrived at the door of 
the flat and let herself in cautiously with her latch-key. The 
reappearance of Eustace Clint had unnerved her, and she 
prayed that at least fate might have permitted her to return 
before the rest of the household. But when she opened the 
door she knew that her prayers were in vain. 

No one was in the kitchen or the drawing-room, and the 
door of Mrs. Sandys’s bedroom was open and all was dark in- 
side, but a sharp razor-edge of light cut clearly under the door 
of Angela Dubarry’s room, and Georgie could hear voices talk- 
ing within. She had been caught out, and she took off the ill- 
starred hat and gazed at it regretfully. When she had put it 
on she had been so happy, and now only a few hours later she 
felt beaten and menaced and did not know where to turn. 

Clint had made it impossible for her to get back to the 
house in time, and the worst had happened. Should she face 
the situation at once and go and make a clean breast of it 
about the hat? 

Little, foolish things have often a way of becoming very 
important in a crisis, and it was her sense of duplicity in 
connection wilh the hat which most weighed upon Georgie at 
that moment. She made up her mind and tightened her pow- 
ers of resistance as she crossed the passage and knocked at Miss 
Dubarry’s door. Silence followed for a moment, and then 
the words “Come in,” spoken in Angela’s most calm and dis- 
tant tones. 

Opening the door, Georgie saw that Mrs. Sandys was stand- 
ing with her back to the room, looking with concentrated atten- 
tion at a picture on the wall. Miss Dubarry was close to the 
door, and she looked at Georgie in stony silence. 

“I’m awfully sorry. Miss Dubarry,” Georgie said, holding 
the hat in her outstretched hands. ‘T know I did very wrong 
indeed, but I had a message from a friend who wanted specially 

to see me, and ” she faltered a little, “I know I did very 

wroug, but I took a loan of your hat. I ought to have asked 

255 


256 A RECKLESS PURITAN 

for it, but I didn’t reely know that Pd want it so badly, 
and ” 

Miss Dubarry did not alter her fixed gaze, which became more 
and more dreadful as Georgie blundered on. 

‘The night was very fine,” she continued more optimistically, 
“and it didn’t do it a sign of harm ; and indeed, Mrs. Sandys,” 
she spoke to the back of Katherine’s head, “I went out without 
leave, so I’ve*been as bad as could be all the way round.” 

She paused again, tendering the hat to Angela, who did not 
stir, and no one spoke. “Will I put on the kettle — the fire’s still 
good in the range — and make some tea?” 

“Please put down my hat,” Angela said frigidly, but with- 
out emotion of any kind escaping into her voice. 

Georgie advanced further into the room and laid it on the 
bed. “Will I make you some tea ?” she asked imploringly. “Oh, 
Mrs. Sandys, I do hope you aren’t out with me? Pd be awfully 
upset if you were, reely I would. Pd not have such a thing 
happen for anything in the world.” 

“You can go now,” Angela replied, and closed the door in 
Georgie’s face. 

There was no use waiting there, and Georgie felt powerless 
against so much steady antagonism. She wondered whether she 
had been seen with Clint, and whether they were thinking awful 
things of her. How did one escape from a net, the meshes 
of which one had woven oneself? 

She dragged herself wearily back to the kitchen and sat 
down, covering her face with her hands. Where had Lousada 
got to by this time, and would he either come or write at 
once to her? What had Clint really meant by his threat, and 
was she wise to remain another day in the flat? She felt 
sure that when they parted he certainly did not wish to see 
her again. He had thought her the same kind of woman as 
the girl he had with him when they met ; but while it attracted 
him to the woman with blonde hair, in Georgie’s case he saw no 
excuse; and all this, too, was a puzzle, only that it comforted 
her to know that she was safe from molestation while his mood 
of repugnance lasted. Momentary safety was something pre- 
cious, even if it were fleeting. 

Behind or, in a way, in front of all this, was the trouble 
with Mrs. Sandys, who seemed angry and upset, since she had 
not answered her at all when Georgie spoke to her. She had 
tackled the question of the hat and Angela had exhibited a sense 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


257 

of deep affront, but that was over. Once the confession was 
made, the affront could take care of itself. Even Miss Du- 
barry couldn’t go on being angry for ever, or even if she did 
she would sooner or later get that spare bedroom in Park Lane, 
and things would right themselves. 

The door of Angela’s bedroom opened, and Georgie started 
nervously. Perhaps, if Mrs. Sandys were coming out now, it 
would be best to waylay her and get a chance to speak. She 
believed that her story would be listened to, and was half 
inclined to make a clean breast of it and tell her the whole 
thing, including her marriage to Clint. 

There was a streak of suppressed drama in Mrs. Sandys 
which made her susceptible to dramatic situations. Georgie 
rose to her feet, the idea strong in her mind, and, as she turned, 
Angela appeared in the doorway, her face reposeful and even 
saintly ; she carried the Duchess’s hat and walked to the kitchen 
fire. Ignoring Georgie, she opened the top of the range and 
placed the hat on the burning coals, ramming it down with the 
poker. 

It was ridiculous to be hurt, and absurd to mind far more 
than one would have minded a good hard blow dealt at one’s 
person, but Georgie felt herself wither suddenly, and all those 
“fresh springs” which keep life human, fell parched in the sands 
and sank away. She was, as Angela intended her to be, thor- 
oughly humiliated. The blow had been struck at her pride and 
self-respect, and the hurt of it went deep. Georgie was never 
unkind to anyone, and unkindness is a form of malice which 
can do illimitable damage; it was cheap enough on the part of 
Miss Dubarry, but there again the cause of her rancours had 
its roots elsewhere. Though she never admitted it, she knew 
that her life had been a singularly unsuccessful one, yet she 
was obliged to keep up a fictitious pretence of her own popular- 
ity. She constantly affirmed that she was a good friend and 
had a reputation for “sweetness”; so that while she really hated 
the majority of her fellow-creatures she was forced to say kind 
things of them, and she was in a measure absolved from this 
necessity in the case of Georgie. Georgie had nothing to offer 
her at all, she was humble and poor, and if you trampled on her 
there was no one to take her part. She was also young and 
intensely alive, and there was no doubt that Lousad.a took an 
interest in the girl. In spite of her lonely state, Georgie was 
unaccountably successful, and Angela, like the rest of us, pre- 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


258 

ferred to attribute any success along those lines where she her- 
self had failed, to some reason which was far from admirable. 
Angela’s rancour was not in any way original or unique, but 
it hurt Georgie, bruised and wretched as she was, worse than 
any blow. 

Having destroyed the Duchess’s hat, Miss Dubarry left the 
kitchen with an infinitesimal smile on her face, for she felt 
triumphant. Not that she really wanted to sacrifice so splendid 
a piece of finery, but because she thought the pleasure it gave 
her worth the burnt-offering. Katherine was still in her room 
when she went back, and, closing the door, sat down on her bed. 

“You really must get rid of her,” she said, returning to an 
argument which had already raged for half an hour. “I tell 
you, dearest, I actually saw her with my own eyes outside the 
picture palace with Eustace Clint. I know him perfectly well 
by sight, and his reputation is simply — well, I need not dwell 
on it. His wife left him, and it is rather a curious fact that 
she was an Irish girl, a Miss Desmond. Lady Duncarrig told 
me of it at the time, for the marriage made a lot of talk. I 
know almost nothing of the facts, but I remember that one 
afternoon, when I was at Adelaide Lorenny’s house, I heard 
a great deal said about the Clint menage ” 

Mrs. Sandys sat limply in a basket chair which creaked and 
groaned whenever she moved. “The similarity in names is 
curious,” she said. “Fancy her having left the lights on, 
Angela, they were burning in the kitchen and in the scullery.” 

“I don’t hold any brief for Eustace Clint, and for all I know, 
his wife left him for very good reasons,” Miss Dubarry re- 
sumed, “but I think it pretty well gives this servant of yours 
away, if she is seen with him. He had his hand on her arm as 
I passed. Luke insisted on my taking a taxi, though I had 
meant to take a bus, but he simply wouldn’t hear of it. He dis- 
likes the idea of women going about alone late at night, or I 
might easily not have seen anything. I was not mistaken, for 
the lights are strong, and really, Katherine, you cannot employ 
a girl who goes out directly your back is turned and picks up 
with men in a cinema. It is your duty to turn her out at once.” 

“I must get at the truth of the story,” Mrs. Sandys said in 
a depressed voice, “I never judge anyone. You may not un- 
derstand the psychology of suppressed mother instinct, and yet. 
it accounts for so many things. Miss Desmond is probably a 
case of the kind, and it is only fair to her to hear her story.” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


259 


Angela lighted a cigarette which she smoked with an air of 
careful rakishness. “My dear Katherine, there are limits. I 
assure you that I should not like to be seen dining alone with 
Eustace Clint; it’s as bad as that. One has to draw the line 
somewhere, and for a servant girl to go out with him — it gives 
the whole show away hopelessly.” She gave an angry smile 
of contempt. “I think that even you should realise that it is 
hardly possible to employ her any longer.” 

“Men are responsible,” Mrs. Sandys said, sticking to her 
guns, “I always stand by women. If Mrs. Clint’s son is a black- 
guard, I think he is entirely to blame. Why should he perse- 
cute a poor girl? I admit she has acted dreadfully badly, but 
all the same, a man of position and education . . .” 

“She probably led him on,” Angela said dryly, “dressed up 
in cheap finery and with my hat to complete the effect. You 
seem to forget that she practically stole my hat.” 

“She did confess to it,” Mrs. Sandys objected. 

“Only because she was found out already. She probably 
doesn’t know that I saw her with Clint, and I advise you not 
to tell her. See then, whether she tells you the truth or not.” 

“Oh, I think she will. I understand her better than you do.” 

But Angela had got her teeth well into the argument and 
was ready to worry it until dawn. She told interminable and 
fearful circumstantial stories of cases she had come across, 
glittering with titles and profusely decorated with references 
to well-known names. She raised a pyre of coronets over 
Georgie’s fallen reputation and dragged in a cortege of gen- 
erals and colonels to back up her evidence for the prosecution. 
It was as though in Georgie’s small person she saw embodied 
all the frustration of her own years, and she charged at her 
with bent head. She even dragged Campion Sandys from the 
other world to assist her, and taking possession of his views 
declared that he would support her contention. 

“If you really do not see the scandalous vulgarity of it all 
for yourself, dear, do think of Campion. Campion would have 
turned her out on the spot. Can you imagine him putting up 
with such conduct?” 

“Campion had a very kind heart,” Mrs. Sandys replied rather 
irritably, “I don’t see how you can know better than I do, 
what he would have done in the circumstances.” 

Angela raised her strong eyebrows, and remained uncon- 
vinced. She was constructing a really splendid story to repea + 


26 o 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


later and already phrases occurred to her. “I spoke of poor 
Campion, and asked Katherine to show some respect for what 
he would have wished, but it was useless. She said she knew 
him better than I did, which of course is not true, because she 
never understood him, and he has said to me, time and times 
again . . .” for Angela was not above inventing when she felt 
it to be necessary for the good of any cause. 

“I do not think it was kind to burn the hat under Miss 
Desmond’s eyes,” Mrs. Sandy s said as she rose to go to her 
room. “We do not know the facts, so far, and I refuse to be 
influenced by circumstantial evidence. I regard that as a piece 
of cruelty on your part, Angela, if you will forgive me for say- 
ing so.” 

Angela reflected that she had still a week to arrange for, be- 
fore the Northmoors would agree to let her in, and she swal- 
lowed down a strong desire to say that either she or Georgie 
must leave the next morning. Quite possibly that idiotic 
Katherine would say that it was she who must go, if she felt 
so strongly about it, so she refrained. 

“You surely did not expect me to wear it agaiti?” she asked 
stiffly. “I think,” she added, as a parting shot, “that all this 
explains Mr. Lousada’s interest in your maid.” 

Mrs. Sandys wished Angela good night and refused to be 
drawn into further arguments of any kind. She disliked Miss 
Dubarry acutely at the moment and reflected on many things 
as she went to bed. Angela’s terrible snobbishness, carefully 
disguised under a semblance of simplicity; her untrustworthy 
habit of repeating things, twisted to suit her own point of 
view, and her intolerable attitude of superiority where Campion 
was concerned. It was not exactly an argument in favour of 
Georgie (who had left the electric light turned on) but it went 
a long way in disposing Mrs. Sandys to judge her cause without 
prejudice. Angela had made the fatal mistake of over-stating 
her case, and rubbing it in too hard. 

As for Georgie, she lay awake for hours, and heard Mrs. 
Sandys going to her room. They had turned down their 
thumbs, she and Miss Dubarry, that was hopelessly evident. 

She surrendered to the belief that Angela had poisoned the 
mind of Mrs. Sandys against her, and that her case was a hope- 
less one, and dragging her thoughts from the angry, burning 
point, where Miss Dubarry stood, she tried to think what was 
to be her next step. Should she or should she not confess 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


261 


anything to Mrs. Sandys? Should she tell her the story of 
Clint? A sense of further outrage overtook her. After all, 
she had a right to liberty in this connection. She was Mrs. 
Sandys’s “domestic helper,” but even so, she was not bound to 
recite a detailed account of her whole past life. Why should 
Mrs. Sandys know the facts? It was a trespass upon all lib- 
erty to be forced to tell her. 

But what was the alternative? A new hunt for employ- 
ment, and new loneliness, and, deep down in her heart, a ter- 
rible strength added to the temptation to fling away all re- 
straints and go to Lousada. The fight had become a fierce 
one with the weeks, and her strong love for J ohn Lousada could 
not be denied. All she need do was to ring him up the first 
thing in the morning and tell him simply that she had changed 
her mind and was ready to go to him. 

Georgie buried her face in her pillow. She felt lonely and 
helpless, and also she was now at the mercy of Clint. Eustace 
had a way of swinging round suddenly and changing his stand- 
point. To-day he might say that he would divorce her, though 
how he could do so was more than Georgie understood, and to- 
morrow he might begin to think that he wanted her enough to 
forgive her anything. That was the sort of man he was. What- 
ever he wanted most to do, he did, and nothing else counted with 
him. 

And then, out of all the stormy thoughts which tossed and 
swept through her mind, Georgie began to think steadily of 
Dada. Her love for Lousada was wicked, at least it would be 
if she twined herself with garlands and went along the happy 
path of doom in his dear keeping. Then Dada would never 
see her, never speak to her again. He would die without hav- 
ing forgiven her, and if they met in the next world he would 
turn .away, though the probabilities of the meeting might be 
infinitesimally small. What did it really matter if Miss Du- 
barry had been hateful? So many people had been unkind to 
Georgie for no particular reason. In spite of them she had 
managed to be happy, and now that there was no more hap- 
piness anywhere, she must manage to be brave. She was up 
against a big struggle with life, and it was doubly hard to feel 
so lonely and defenceless, because one couldn’t run away to 
John and chuck the rest of the world to blazes. 

So many people hated her, and it is very hard to endure 
hatred when one is young. Later on it matters little enough. 


262 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


but at twenty-four it is unendurably hard. They would try 
to push her down between them all, but they would not be able 
to do it. Had Georgie known of it she might have consoled 
herself a little with the words of the Confederate General, 
‘TIere comes that damned green flag again!” 

Eor Dada’s sake, and for the sake of the queerly stubborn 
principle she held, she determined to do battle, let come what 
might, and as she lay on her bed she prayed with renewed 
energy. The world professed to know the mind of God (just as 
Angela professed, when it suited her, to know the mind of her 
cousin Campion Sandys) but the world was wrong. Let them 
do their worst and call down fire from Heaven upon their altars, 
she had no intention of giving in, either to the longing she car- 
ried in her own heart, or to the frowning faces ranged against 
her. But she dreamed of the Duchess’s hat, because, however 
high we climb in moments of spiritual insight, a small thing can 
always bring us back to this ignoble earth again. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


Eustace Clint had no intention whatever of telling his mother 
anything about his meeting with Georgie, but he was tempera- 
mentally changeable as a weather-cock, and subject to sudden 
reactions which were intensely perplexing to those who did not 
know him well; so that he was at the mercy of every anti- 
climax. A sense of duty forced him to call at his mother’s 
house when he was in London, and he went there much as he 
went to church on Christmas Hay, because he had always done 
so; and he made this concession to principle the day after he 
had seen Georgie for the last time. 

He was never at his best when he sat in her drawing-room 
and looked at her heavy yellow face, wondering what in the 
world could have induced his father to marry her. He had 
avoided lunching with her, and arrived in time for tea to find 
her alone, and at once he felt very young again, in the sense 
that he knew she had never admitted his natural right to live 
his own life. 

Mrs. Clint did not favour independence, and she would have 
precluded him firmly from freedom or responsibility had she 
been able to do so. He had escaped from her clutches long 
ago, and had she known the details of his life, he felt that she 
would certainly have had an apoplectic fit, but she had by far 
the stronger character of the two, and had a curiously sly way 
of worming out intelligence while she sat in her deep easy chair, 
her feet on a foot-stool. 

“ An y word of that dreadful girl?” she asked, alluding to 
Georgie. “Ah, dear me, what a shocking mistake you made, 
Eustace.” 

He knew the inference perfectly well. “Why did you not 
consult your mother? Had you done so, this would not have 
happened,” and the worst of it was that it was in a measure, 
true. He said nothing, but gave a leathery piece of cake to 
the dog who sniffed at his knee. 

“I feel that something should be done,” Mrs. Clint went on; 

263 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


264 

“though I entirely disapprove of divorce, I think you ought to 
regularise matters.” 

Eustace looked down, his face flushed, and stretched out his 
legs before him, his white spats showing up defiantly against 
the dark carpet. He was annoyed, but in spite of that Mrs. 
Clint managed to dominate him. “I intend to see Catterson to- 
morrow,” he said shortly. 

Mrs. Clint altered her position slightly and drew her shawl 
around her shoulders. “Catterson,” she said, pursing up her 
lips. “Ah, indeed. But why Catterson? I have always kept 
faithfully to Sutton, a steady, dependable man of business.” 

“Catterson is more suitable,” Eustace got up and stood before 
the fireplace, looking at a water colour painted by his mother 
in her youth, which was supposed to represent the sea, but 
which gave the effect of a sodden blue carpet rather badly laid 
down. 

Mrs. Clint grew suddenly alert. She always said that she 
was difficult to deceive, and she knew a great deal more about 
her son than he ever guessed. “Then you have come upon traces 
of the girl ?” she asked, shooting the question at him like a clever 
rifleman. 

Clint was silent again and wandered round the room looking 
into a mirror at the further end which reflected Mrs. Clint. 
He did not expect any sympathy from his mother, but he was 
feeling angry and sore, and he was well aware that her by no 
means despicable powers of invective would be turned upon 
Georgie. It is very human to desire to receive the simple com- 
fort of hearing that some one who has wronged you is thor- 
oughly and deplorably bad, and in any case she would have to 
know sooner or later. He fell to the temptation of the mo- 
ment. 

“I have found her out,” he said, returning to the fire and 
sitting down. “That’s all.” 

“Found her out? I did that long ago,” Mrs. Clint said with 
a hard touch of malice. “Who is the man ?” 

“Who are the men would be nearer it, I’m afraid,” he replied. 
“Look here, mother, I don’t want to discuss Georgie nor will I 
stand it if you say unkind things of her. It’s simply this, the 
poor girl’s gone under. I came across her last night quite ac- 
cidentally, and that is how it is.” 

The light of battle gleamed in Mrs. Clint’s eyes and she stared 
at her son. 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 265 

“So you found her out,” she said smoothly. “I cannot say 
how I regret this, Eustace,” but the look on her face was cer- 
tainly not one of pity. “What steps do you propose to take?” 

Oh, divorce, I think. There’s no object in being tied for 
life to her. Reconciliation is out of the question.” 

“So long as she is your wife she can return and insist upon 
living in your house,” Mrs. Clint remarked cautiously. “I am 
strongly against divorce, Eustace, but indeed the situation is 
a hopeless one as it stands. There is your position to consider, 
and Eleanor has no children.” She heaved a profound sigh. 
“Even the most strict-minded must admit the difficulty. I 
was speaking to Canon Fluter only the other day, and he said 
that there are exceptions to every rule.” She blew her nose 
loudly. “In your deplorable case one has to reconsider one’s 
views. But how dreadful. At a music hall, I suppose?” 

“I’m not going to talk of it,” he said. “I have her ad- 
dress, and I suppose one must employ a private detective. I 
believe that is the simplest way.” 

“Where is she living?” Mrs. Clint asked eagerly. She had 
a deeply inquisitive nature whenever she scented a scandal, 
and her instinct for detail demanded far more than Eustace 
seemed at all prepared to disclose. He hesitated for a time, 
and at length he told her. When he had spoken, Mrs. Clint 
jerked herself back in her chair and made an exclamation of 
amazed dismay. 

“But, Eustace, my dear boy, this is the address of Katherine 
Sandy s’s flat. It becomes really extraordinary.” 

“That’s where she is,” he replied, “I saw her go in.” 

Mrs. Clint was silent and seemed to ruminate for a time, in 
fact she was silent for so long that Eustace became impatient 
and poked the fire noisily. 

“I have been putting two and two together,” she said with 
a look in his direction. “I know Katherine Sandys quite well; 
she is a fool, but we are on the same committee, so we meet 
fairly frequently. She spoke of an Irish servant whom she 
had engaged without a character, and I warned her more than 
once. I assure you, dear boy, that I must have seen the 
wretched creature and not recognised her — yes, actually — quite 
lately.” 

“A servant! My God, mother, it can’t be possible.” For 
some reason or other the idea outraged Clint even further than 


266 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


his own conclusion, and he turned crimson. If that got out 
it would be damnable indeed. 

“Be patient, Eustace, and I will explain,” Mrs. Clint con- 
tinued heavily. “Mrs. Sandys is a crank. A kindly, well- 
meaning woman who does untold harm. She keeps a servant, it 
is true, but is, as I know, constantly away from her flat, some- 
times for two and three days together; and you can see where 
the opportunity arises. We must go carefully into this mat- 
ter.” 

Eustace was past speech, so he said nothing. 

“Katherine believes in some totally ridiculous theory of per- 
sonal liberty, and she probably allows the woman to deceive 
her, quite blatantly. Even in the case of an innocent girl I 
should disagree with her, because it offers temptation, and for 
a fallen creature” — Mrs. Clint closed her eyes and shuddered — 
“it is disaster.” 

“But a servant, mother. It is so awkward. It might have to 
come out, don’t you see? If I divorce Georgie the case will 
be in the papers, and every one will talk like hell,” he got up 
again and paced the floor restlessly, pushing aside chairs and 
showing his anger. “It makes my position impossible. Perhaps 
I’d better leave it as it is.” 

“When you decided to marry,” Mrs. Clint said in tones of 
great forbearance, “you did not come to me for advice. I have 
never reproached you, Eustace, and when your wife left you I 
held my peace.” There was something nearly sublime in the 
way Mrs. Clint alluded to her own wonderful patience. “Now 
that you are in a fresh difficulty and you have found that your 
wife is an adulteress,” she spoke the word with tremendous 
solemnity, “will you leave the matter in my hands for a week 
or two, before you consult your solicitors? If you will do so, 
I can assure you that you may expect to find her in a different 
milieu to that of Katherine Sandys,” she paused for a moment. 
“I do not profess to have much influence over Katherine, but 
I think I can be sufficiently diplomatic to insure her getting 
rid of the woman.” 

“What induced her to do such a thing?” Clint asked furi- 
ously, “was it spite? Yet when I offered her money she re- 
fused to take it.” He had melted now towards Mrs. Clint and 
he began to tell her the story. 

“Ah, she was well dressed, you say? Mrs. Sandys only pays 
low wages, I know that for a fact.” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 267 

“Quite well dressed,” lie said. “I noticed these things, and 
before I recognised her the hat she was wearing caught my 
eye. IPs all so miserable, mother.” 

“I believe that many of these women make huge fortunes,” 
Mrs. Clint said, nodding her head mournfully. “No doubt she 
has got hold of some poor young man and is bringing him to 
ruin. Oh, my dear boy, we cannot be too thankful that the 
truth has come to light at last, remember that ‘all things work 
together for good for those who love the Lord/ I knew that 
my prayers would be heard.” 

“It defeats me,” Clint said impatiently, “I all but took her 
back.” 

“Thank God you did not,” his mother replied. “I am glad 
you were honest with me, Eustace, and you will leave the mat- 
ter with me, will you not?” 

“She must be got away from there,” he agreed. “If she is 
using this Mrs. Sandys as a kind of stalking horse, it’s inexcus- 
able in any case, though it seems so unlike her. . . . Still, 
when the case comes on she can’t be advertised all over Eng- 
land as being a servant, I couldn’t swallow that; only it is so 
unlike her.” 

Mrs. Clint looked at him pitifully and quoted Tennyson’s 
line, “The pitted speck, within the garner’d fruit.” “Once a 
moral fault is committed, the result is far reaching,” she said, 
“and, after all, you knew very little of her when you married 
her. It is your own punishment, Eustace, for I fear your 
love was not holy. ... In a moment of passion you tied your- 
self to a girl who may not have been all you thought her.” 

“She was as straight as a line,” he replied and his look grew 
hostile; he disliked the way in which his mother was lecturing 
him. One didn’t talk like that, whatever one’s behaviour might 
be; but Mrs. Clint had a coarse directness of expression which 
Eleanor had inherited, only that Eleanor graced it with a 
perpetual flippancy. 

“Let us not discuss it,” Mrs. Clint replied. “It is a most 
unsavoury subject.” 

When he had gone she sat for some time pondering over the 
future, like a general thinking out an offensive campaign. She 
must go very warily indeed, and not appear in person, for the 
connection between Georgie and Mrs. Clint could not be made 
known to Mrs. Sandys. With numbers of her other acquaint- 
ances Mrs. Clint could rely upon a hint and a few well chosen 


268 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


words, but Mrs. Sandys was difficult because of her vagueness 
of principles. Yet her eyes must be opened. Even if Eustace 
were not involved, Mrs. Clint could not possibly evade her 
duty in this respect. 

At last she rose from her chair and went to her writing table 
determined to use the greatest restraint as she wrote, and 
choosing the non-committal expression “Something has come 
to my ears, the nature of which I feel it my duty to disclose to 
you,” she asked Mrs. Sandys to call upon her some afternoon 
early in the week. 

As she put a stamp on her letter, Eleanor came into the room 
and flung herself into a chair. 

“Any news ?” she asked as Mrs. Clint turned to her. 

“You have always championed your sister-in-law,” Mrs. Clint 
said ferociously, for Eleanor invariably awoke a feeling of an- 
tagonism in her breast, “and now it may interest you to hear 
that Eustace has discovered that she has become a ” 

“I won’t hear it,” Eleanor broke in, interrupting her 
mother. “You’ll use some awful Biblical word and shock me, 
mamma. Georgie? What bunkum. Where and how did 
Eustace get hold of this lie?” 

Mrs. Clint ignored her warmth. “I fear you are wrong,” she 
said, with great politeness. “She was painted and over-dressed 
and she made no effort to contradict him when he accused her.” 

Eleanor pushed her mother’s spaniel away with her feet. “Go 
away, you sniffling, sanctimonious beast,” she remarked, and 
then she looked at Mrs. Clint. “If it is so,” she said slowly, 
“I suppose you are glad.” 

During the whole morning after the night of disaster, Mrs. 
Sandys avoided Georgie, who went about her work with a feeling 
of utter misery upon her. There was no letter for her from 
Lousada, nor had he rung her up, and for this she was thankful, 
as Angela did not go out, and had he done so, she would cer- 
tainly have intercepted the call. Georgie was hopelessly in dis- 
grace, and though Mrs. Sandys had given her a fleeting look 
and wished her good morning, Angela had ignored her com- 
pletely, and no longer rang for her whenever she wanted any- 
thing done. It was a lessening of an irksome demand upon her 
time, but for all that, Georgie would have welcomed the sound. 

She decided against confession, before lunch was ready. Per- 
haps it was a touch of the strong Protestant strain in her which 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


269 

influenced her decision, but her heart was stony, and she only 
saw the injustice of her lot. Only God and Lousada knew. 
They had a right to know, but no one else had the smallest claim 
to pry into the shabby little mystery which surrounded and 
shadowed her life. As for Clint and the divorce, for aught 
Georgie knew, he could take proceedings against her quite rea- 
sonably. Wives were the possession of their husbands. Miss 
White had said frequently, “Once you are married, if your 
husband wants to put you in the kitchen fire, Georgie, he’s 
within his rights,” and she had seemed to think it rather a grand 
thing. The legal aspect of it was entirely unknown to Georgie 
and she accepted what Eustace said. Probably she might be 
taken by a policeman within a few hours and brought to the 
divorce courts, wherever they were; and at the thought of it 
her eyes grew hard. 

Miss Dubarry lunched alone, telling Georgie that she need 
not wait, rather as though she were addressing a liveried foot- 
man, and the miserable day dragged itself through wearily 
until at last Mrs. Sandy s came in, just after Angela had gone 
out. 

Whether she would have spoken to Georgie had Angela been 
there, it is hard to say, for there was a queer twist in the warp 
and woof of Katherine’s psychology, but alone with Georgie in 
the flat, she proceeded to the kitchen and looked in. 

“I rather want to speak to you, Miss Desmond,” she said 
in her nervous, shy way. “I mean, you do really owe me an ex- 
planation. It was so wrong of you to take Miss Dubarry’s hat 
and wear it. You should remember that I always trusted you.” 

“I do, indeed,” Georgie replied, twining and untwining her 
fingers as she stood by the deal table. “Indeed I do, Mrs. 
Sandys.” 

Katherine nodded and looked at her kindly. She was won- 
dering whether Georgie was in trouble, and whether she ought 
to get medical advice for her. “Are you feeling ill?” she asked 
pointedly. 

“I think it was very ugly and very nasty of Miss Dubarry 
to go and burn the hat,” Georgie said, close to tears as she spoke. 
“You’d imagine she thought I’d poisoned it.” 

“I do not think she should have burned it,” Mrs. Sandys 
agreed, “but that isn’t the question.” 

“I’m very well, thank you,” Georgie said formally, and then 
her sense of outrage came over her afresh. “What’s wrong at 


270 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


all, Mrs. Sandys? IPs true I did go out without leave, but 
haven’t I often heard you say that we’re all human beings to- 
gether and that there ought to be liberty?” 

“You left the lights burning,” Mrs. Sandys said, and she 
looked affronted and rather upset at the recollection. 

“Glory!” Georgie was crestfallen and shocked. “You don’t 
ever tell me that ! Oh, I am so sorry. What can I say, indeed ? 
Me, leaving the lights on,” she advanced a step or two implor- 
ingly. “Mayn’t I pay for it? Do let me make it up to you. 
Beely , I’d rather. I can’t think how I was so careless. ’Tis 
no wonder you are out with me and I deserve every bit of it.” 

Her evident repentance softened Mrs. Sandys, who agreed to 
say no more about it, but there was a much graver question to 
discuss, and $ie sat down, which Georgie regarded as a good 
sign, and began to talk again. 

“There is something rather — I mean, Miss Desmond, will you 
be very honest with me ? Have you done this kind of thing be- 
fore ?” 

Georgie spread her fingers out along the edge of the table and 
did not look up. She foresaw that Mrs. Sandys was going to try 
and wrest a confession from her, and she felt stubbornly deter- 
mined to resist. Still, the question had to be answered somehow. 
“When I’ve met a friend, I’ve taken a turn along th’ Embank- 
ment,” she said huskily. 

“But not gone out to dinner?” 

Georgie looked up quite frankly. “No, indeed not.” 

Mrs. Sandys paused again and then returned to the attack. 
“You don’t make friends with men, do you? I know the dan- 
gers of London streets and how a girl like you might fall a prey 
to some rich man who could easily ruin her.” 

“Is it me talk to a stranger?” Georgie’s eyes blazed. “I’d 
like to see him try it on with me. I’ve never done it, Mrs. 
Sandys, never in all me life. I’d be ashamed to do such a 
thing.” 

Mrs. Sandys eyed her doubtfully, but her dislike of Angela 
Dubarry worked in her mind. As well as this, there was a 
ring of what appealed to her as unmistakable truth in what 
Georgie said. Either she was blameless, or she was the most 
consummate actress alive. 

“I think I should tell you,” Mrs. Sandys continued, “that Miss 
Dubarry thought she saw you with some man. Now, I am pre- 
pared to forgive you for leaving on the lights, and I shall re- 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


271 

gard your having taken Miss Dubarry’s hat as a piece of fool- 
ish and vulgar ignorance on your part, but I cannot keep you 
here if you don’t behave yourself properly. Please don’t think 
me unkind. Miss Desmond, but will you say truthfully, if you 
really did meet a stranger and let him take you out to dinner 
and the cinema?” 

Georgie stood as stiff as a ramrod and met her glance. It 
was a comfort to be able to tell a fairly truthful lie. After all, 
Clint was no stranger, nor had she dined with him. If Angela 
had seen them together and had repeated the fact, Mrs. Sandys 
was fully prepared to take Georgie’s own word for it, that it was 
not true. 

“I’ve never spoken to strangers nor let them speak to me,” 
she said stoutly. “If Miss Dubarry saw me, she saw some one 
I once knew talking to me, which might happen to her and no 
harm in it, but we only met by accident, and I wasn’t long 
getting away from him.” 

“Then there is nothing between you and him?” Mrs. Sandys 
asked earnestly. “You know that, though I do not understand 
your friendship with Mr. Lousada, I fully believe it to be harm- 
less. This other man — can you not tell me his name?” 

“I’d rather not. It’s all a bit difficult,” Georgie replied, her 
eyes on the row of red tins along the kitchen chimney shelf. 

“I wish you could have.” Mrs. Sandys was offended and 
spoke coldly? “However, if you will not, will you give me your 
word that there is nothing wrong between yorK” 

“Wrong between us? Certainly not,” Georgie said hotly. 
“What would be wrong? I can’t go telling his name because 
he’s no real friend to me” — her eyelids flickered over wet 
eyes — “and I don’t want to speak or think of him again. Miss 
White used to say that if you talked of the devil he was sure 
to appear, and there’s some truth in it. If I go talking about 
him, he might ring at the door, and I told you we’d parted.” 

“Is he a relative?” Mrs. Sandys asked, and the devil of 
whom she had just spoken tempted Georgie on the spot. 

“He’s married to a first cousin of my own,” she replied with 
alarming facility. “There’s family matters connected with it 
all.” 

And then Mrs. Sandys played a terrible trump card. “I know 
his name,” she said, “and I did hear he had married an Irish 
girl,” she smiled quite forgivingly at Georgie. “I also heard the 
marriage described as a mesalliance, and probably she was not 


272 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


in what is called his class.” Mrs. Sandys was so tremendously 
relieved by Georgie’s fictitious support of Angela’s story that 
Georgie herself was staggered for a second. 

“I d’no,” she said with a slight touch of confusion, ‘d>ut, 
anyway, Mrs. Sandys, you need not think what you were think- 
ing about me, for it is not true.” 

“I believe it is not,” Mrs. Sandys agreed, “and it is a great 
weight off my mind. Miss Dubarry will soon be leaving, I ex- 
pect, and then things can be normal again,” and she got up 
from her chair and left the kitchen. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


Opposition of any sort always creates opposition, and when 
Mrs. Sandys showed that she intended to do nothing about 
Georgie, Angela Dubarry became more than ever determined 
that something should be done. 

Things had gone badly after the reconciliation, which is not 
altogether unusual, and Mrs. Sandys, having been generous, be- 
came suspicious. A letter received by her from Mrs. Clint re- 
awakened doubts in her mind, and an interview with that lady 
agitated her and distressed her. She saw through Mrs. Clint’s 
“John Doe and Richard Roe” subterfuge, as she already knew 
that Clint was involved, and it shook her impulsive belief in 
the truth of Georgie’s statement. Mrs. Clint had alarmed her 
thoroughly, and had made her feel that she was a weak fool, 
easily blinded and a prey to any glib-tongued adventuress. 
Angela steered clear of the subject entirely, and her very avoid- 
ance accentuated her unspoken attitude of mind. Like the rest 
of us, Katherine Sandys knew her faults, or some of them; at 
least, knew that she was given to over-impulsive action. Mrs. 
Clint had not spared her, and had spoken so plainly that she 
nearly reduced Mrs. Sandys to tears, so that, though she re- 
mained outwardly neutral, the basis of her standpoint shook. 
“You will find yourself washing some very dirty linen indeed, 
unless you are careful,” Mrs. Clint said with the assured voice 
of a prophet of evil. “Get rid of her ” 

It was a day or two later that the next occurrence took place, 
and Mrs. Sandys came back to her flat to find that Georgie 
was not there. A note, left on her writing-table, told her that 
Georgie had received an urgent message from a relation who 
wanted to see her, and would be back in time to cook dinner. It 
was Friday, the day on which the weekly books were usually 
paid, and an investigation of the drawer where they lay, in- 
formed Mrs. Sandys that a ten-shilling note was missing. 
The discovery upset her dreadfully, though she managed to hide 
her feelings from Angela, as she did not wish to be told that 
she had surely been warned often enough, and Georgie reap- 

273 


274 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


peared, her face stained with obvious traces of tears, and said 
she had missed the “relation” at the rendezvous. She looked 
so wretched and heart-broken, and was so stubbornly determined 
to say nothing at all, that Mrs. Sandy s was divided between 
pity and reproach. 

“I looked in the drawer,” she said, “and I noticed that there 
is ten shillings short in the money I gave you for the books.” 

“Is there?” Georgie said dispiritedly. “I’ll try to find it.” 
She did not appear to care in the least, and was dull and un- 
happy, hardly taking any heed of Mrs. Sandys, who retired 
from the kitchen feeling disquieted and distressed. After a 
little, Georgie came into the drawing-room and laid a collection 
of silver and coppers and one or two stamps on her writing- 
table, which Mrs. Sandys accepted silently; she had given her 
a note earlier in the day and the inference was uncomfortably 
clear. 

“I have a terrible pain in my head,” Georgie said, “and I’d 
like to go lie down for a bit, Mrs. Sandys.” 

Katherine made no offer of remedies, but gave her permis- 
sion, and when Georgie left the room, she turned and caught 
Angela’s sympathetic eye. Their late hostility vanished sud- 
denly, and Miss Dubarry spoke in tones of great commiseration. 
“My dear Katherine, you are the best and kindest woman 
alive.” 

The words unlocked the silence between them, and Mrs. 
Sandys allowed some of her doubts to leak out into speech. 

“She looks so queer /’ she said. “And this sudden journey 
to see a relation is rather strange. I wonder if I ought to 
speak to her now ?” 

“Leave her alone,” Miss Dubarry replied. “She will only 
lie to you.” 

In her own little room Georgie lay sobbing on her bed. She 
had finished her work at top speed and rushed to the station to 
meet Lousada for the last time for months, and missed him, 
only arriving to see the train vanish out of sight. Until he 
had actually gone, she had not realised what his going meant, 
and her whole soul was racked with anguish at the sharpness of 
the blow. She had stood in the great gloomy station, her pas- 
sionate little face tortured and white, and felt as if all the 
hope, chivalry and comfort had gone out of her life for ever. 
Everything else seemed unreal, and the money she had taken 
to pay for her ticket to Victoria Station mocked her. Why 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


275 

had she hesitated to spend it on a taxi, why had she haggled 
with her conscience over a few shillings, when it would have 
made all the difference if she had thrown all such questions to 
the winds and felt once more the grasp of Lousada’s hands 
holding hers? She had not even had a glimpse of him to 
help her. A sense of vacancy and despair crept over her and 
a spasm convulsed her face. 

She had stuck to her principles and would stick to them 
unto the end, but at that moment passion was stronger than 
anything else. She stared blindly at the future, and wondered 
whether her choice had been worth all the pain it entailed. Life 
had snatched him out of reach of her for an unlimited time, 
and the storm of longing and frustration, loosed against the 
heart at such moments, came over her with all its poignancy. 
She hardly remembered how she had got back to the flat, but she 
knew that she had wandered, lost and pitiful as a stray dog 
whose master has gone away, and that on her return she had 
come to a point where she could stand no more. Mrs. Sandys 
had discovered the absence of the ten-shilling note, and wanted 
to know about it. She wanted to know about everything, al- 
ways, and Georgie’ s spirits were too crushed for revolt. There 
was sixpence in stamps in one of the drawers of her dressing- 
table, and she gathered up a few coppers from a pocket in her 
coat and put them together, absorbed in her own misery of mind. 
Why should she have to worry about such things, at an hour 
when doom was upon her? John Lousada had gone, and in 
going, he took with him every atom of gladness. 

The hours of the night were long in passing and Georgie did 
not sleep. She arose with anxious eyes and a bewildered feeling 
of heavy despair, and went through the day’s work without a 
smile, and Mrs. Sandy s’s renewed avoidance of her passed un- 
noticed. 

Fate, as Georgie felt, had wreaked its utmost and its worst 
on her, and she could only struggle along and get things done 
which had to be done. She even ceased to be angry with 
Angela and could recall the incident of the Duchess’s hat with- 
out any renewal of heat, and a steady downpour outside the 
windows of the flat suited her mood. 

It was late in the afternoon when Georgie became aware that 
some commotion was going on in the flat, and that Angela, who 
had been in and out in spite of the weather, was speaking much 
more loudly than was usual with her. She was laying down the 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


276 

law to Mrs. Sandys in angry tones in the drawing-room, and 
Mrs. Sandys could be heard murmuring in reply. It did not 
disturb Georgie, for she was still held very far off from any- 
thing that was happening around her, by the remorseful long- 
ings of her own heart. These miserable trifling duties had 
cheated her of her half-hour with Lousada, her empty purse had 
prevented her taking a taxi, and her doubts of Mrs. Sandys’s 
real sincerity had stood between her and her impulse to bor- 
row all she needed. 

These things had thwarted her and deprived her of what 
she most urgently longed for, and ' at the fresh recollection 
Georgie sat down by the kitchen table and buried her face in 
her arms. But in this world it is often not possible even to cry 
in peace, and the door opened and Mrs. Sandys came in, fol- 
lowed by Angela Dubarry. 

Georgie looked up at them, a mutinous curl of soft dark hair 
trailing over her eyes, and she did not rise to her feet. They 
had intruded upon her, for, at that hour, the kitchen premises 
should certainly have been her own, and the lines of her mouth 
became sulky and rebellious. 

“Please stand up. Miss Desmond,” Mrs. Sandys said, looking 
at her with her cold, vague eyes. “Miss Dubarry wishes to 
speak to you.” 

“I could hear her as well sitting down,” Georgie retorted with 
sudden incivility, but she got up and stood facing them. Angela 
gave a slight sniff of disapproval and spoke very loudly and 
plainly, as though Georgie was a small and unintelligent child. 

“I cashed a cheque this morning,” she said, “and put the 
notes in my handbag. There were two notes of five pounds, 
and two ten-shilling notes, as well as loose silver. I went back 
to the bank — Gregg’s Bank at the corner of Sloane Square — at 
twelve o’clock, and on the way back I bought one or two things 
at Kingham’s shop in King’s Road.” 

Georgie took no interest in the recital, and she wondered what 
induced Miss Dubarry to come to the kitchen to make this 
statement to her. Let her go away and talk somewhere else to 
some one who was less unhappy and had time to hear her. 

“I came in for lunch,” Miss Dubarry went on with the same 
studied accuracy, her deep-set eyes sombre and angry, “and as 
it was quite half an hour late, I am perfectly sure of the time.” 

“Is it telling me the lunch was late, she is, Mrs. Sandys?” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


277 

Georgie enquired, turning her blank eyes towards Katherine, 
who made no reply. 

“You need not be impertinent,” Miss Dubarry remarked 
frigidly. “I went out to post a letter, leaving my purse in the 
drawing-room, and now one of the five-pound notes has gone.” 

“You didn’t happen to see Miss Dubarry’ s bag?” Mrs. Sandys 
interposed quickly. “It is a brocade one, with silver clasps, and 
the purse was inside.” 

“I’ve never seen a sign of it,” Georgie said unsympatheti- 
cally. Here was this fool of a woman making a ridiculous fuss 
about a mere question of money. What did five pounds matter, 
what did anything matter? She turned away to go to the scul- 
lery; perhaps they would leave her there in peace. 

“Please do not go,” Angela said, with a sudden touch of 
sharpness in her voice. “I think you must have seen my bag. 
It was on Mrs. Sandys’s writing-table, and you came out of 
the drawing-room just as I hurried back, having found that I 
could not pay for a telegram I meant to send.” 

“I went in to look at the time, the kitchen clock is broken.” 

Angela turned to Mrs. Sandys and looked at her significantly 
and Katherine began to speak, but Georgie did not stay to 
listen. She retired to the scullery and banged the door. Let 
Miss Dubarry look for her own money if it was missing ; it was 
no affair of hers. Both these women were independent and 
could go and come as they pleased, but she had lost her most 
precious half-hour because they sat talking so long after lunch 
and wanted coffee. They were responsible, and on the whole 
she was glad that Angela had lost five pounds. “It’s the price 
of her, and serves her out,” she said to herself. 

After a time, Georgie opened the kitchen door and saw that 
the kitchen was empty. 

A hot restlessness swept over her and she longed for air. 
There was time to go out before it became necessary to cook 
the evening meal, and she went to her room and put on her hat 
and coat and walked out into the street. London was dreadful 
to her as she walked, and the dingy pavements and wet, dis- 
couraged-looking people oppressed her soul with a sense of ex- 
asperation. They were all enduring life just as she herself must 
endure it, and there was no relief anywhere. She had some- 
times felt very miserable in the old days in Ardclare, and had 
revolted against the unkindness of the people towards her and 
Dada. She had been patronised and sneered at, and deliberately 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


278 

left out by people who wanted to use their petty powers to hurt, 
and the whole world was turned into a place of mean perse- 
cution and whispering slander and scandal. If they would only 
say honestly, “We hate you, and want to trample you into the 
mud,” it would have been better, and they pretended always 
that they were in league with God, and tried to pin their actions 
to the hem of His garment. Angela had awakened memories of 
things forgotten, and her antagonism was like the well-remem- 
bered antagonism of many of the Ardclare people. How did 
one conquer them eventually? Only by becoming richer and 
more powerful, and then, though they still hated you, they hid 
the fact and were outwardly amiable. 

The long, grey streets were dreary and ugly, and the light 
from the electric lamps made pink rays down the damp air, 
but only spread their illumination a very little way round, and 
yet in an indirect manner they comforted her a little, for they 
seemed calm and fixed, and did not leave the world in utter 
darkness. 

At length she returned to the flat and went about her work, 
songless and mute like a frozen bird, and it seemed to her 
that a long chain of reality was hourly separating her further 
and further from Lousada. Wind-swept seas, miles and miles 
of railway lines, and a tearing, rushing train taking him more 
and more completely away from her life . . . she could not 
cease thinking of it, even though it was no use to dwell upon 
the picture. 

All through dinner Georgie waited upon Mrs. Sandys and 
Angela with mechanical indifference. They were less than 
shadows to her, whose thoughts were battling with limitless dis- 
tance. Mrs. Sandys was silent, and looked ill and restless, but 
Angela maintained her splendid calm and talked persistently, 
whether Katherine responded or not. 

At the end of the meal a violent ringing of the front door 
bell startled Mrs. Sandys, who rose in her place as Georgie 
went to the dining-room door. It was as though drama really 
had come unannounced into the room, for, in spite of her ab- 
straction, Georgie realised that Mrs. Sandys was evidently 
alarmed, and she looked sick and shaken; even Miss Dubarry’s 
usually placid composure appeared to break up quite suddenly 
and her dark eyes grew strained and alert. Something which 
she had been expecting was just about to happen. 

As she opened the door, Georgie was slightly taken aback to 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


279 

see the figure of a large policeman standing in the entrance, 
and his deep-toned demand for Mrs. Sandys was, in her ears, a 
cheerful sound. She had always liked policemen, and had 
played the accompaniments of the head constable at Ardclare 
at various parish concerts, so she brightened a little, and asked 
him to come in while she informed her mistress that he was 
there. On the whole, the incident intrigued her. As she began 
to clear away she saw through the open door the figure of Mrs. 
Sandys in her velvet tea-gown and Angela in tomato satin, 
giving a pleasant colour effect under the electric light. 

The policeman produced a notebook and began to write, and 
they all spoke in lowered voices, and then came to the room 
and stood looking at her. 

For a second she did not understand what they meant, and 
Angela again spoke to the policeman. “You quite understand. 
I saw this girl come out of the drawing-room when I returned 
from the post office, and directly I searched my bag I discovered 
the theft.” 

Georgie recoiled in amazement. They were accusing her of 
being a thief, and had sent for the policeman to take her to 
prison. The blood rushed to her face and neck and she shivered 
violently. After the strain of the day this fresh demand upon 
her staggered her, aud her reasoned faculties of comprehen- 
sion and resistance fell away from her utterly, and she lis- 
tened, standing perfectly still. It couldn’t be true, and yet it 
was true. It couldn’t really be happening to her, and yet it 
was all happening with tremendous swiftness. How ridiculous 
to dream of a policeman with a notebook, and of six eyes all 
staring at her and holding her like hands out of a vague dark- 
ness. She was speechless and dumb before them, and the police- 
man said something which sounded like jargon, adding, as she 
looked so white and perplexed, that she was to consider her- 
self under arrest. 

“What did I do?” she asked dully. “I don’t know a thing 
about it.” She turned her eyes to Angela, and there was no 
expression in them. For a moment she had been pushed beyond 
the power to express anything. 

“I will take you to Yale Street Police Station,” the police- 
man said more briskly. “Come on at once, please.” 

Georgie walked to the door. “I’ll come,” she agreed, “but 
I’ll get my hat and coat.” She passed closed to Mrs. Sandys, 
who made an impulsive movement towards her and then drew 


28 o 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


back again; but Georgie did not notice her at all. She was so 
occupied with the one thought which governed everything else. 
What a queer business life was — a queer, queer business — just 
queer. And what in the world would Dada say if he knew ? 

She put on her hat and coat and came back to the hall, where 
the policeman was waiting, Angela and Mrs. Sandys having dis- 
appeared, and together they went out through the door and 
down in the lift to the street entrance. She remembered’ 
vaguely that there was a police station somewhere near that 
looked as if it had been built out of a gigantic box of bricks 
by some unimaginative child. 

“What’ll they do with me?” she asked the same question 
again. “I haven’t done anything. I’d not touch anyone else’s 
money.” 

“You’ll be charged by the sergeant,” the policeman said, as 
though this explained everything, and Georgie was silent once 
more. 

The office was brightly lighted by a strong electric lamp, and 
behind a table the night inspector sat writing in a large book. 
It surprised Georgie to think how quietly he seemed to accept 
crime and criminals, and he either ignored or did not hear the 
raging shouts of a drunken man who beat upon the door of his 
cell which must have been only a short distance off. 

He glanced at her without curiosity or interest, and the po- 
liceman stated the particulars of the charge, while the night 
inspector listened with dreadful detachment. He seemed 
neither misanthropic nor pessimistic, but immortal in his pa- 
tience. She was accused of theft, and the inspector read over 
the charge to her, uttering the words with a kind of unction, 
as if it was a part of a religious ceremony. If he owned to 
any human weakness, it was the pleasure he took in the deep 
sound of his own voice. 

“I didn’t steal anything,” she said desperately. 

“Have you any one who will go bail for you ?” he asked, fixing 
her with a searching eye and speaking rather louder, for the 
man in the cells was shouting violently and threatening in a 
hoarse, angry voice. 

“I don’t know anyone,” she faltered, her eyes filling with 
sudden tears. “Th’ only friend I have went away to-day, and 
there’s no one else,” and she listened with an aching, bewildered 
mind to his words when he told her that she would pass the 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 281 

night in a police cell and go before the magistrate the fol- 
lowing morning. 

“But not anywhere near the drunken man?” she implored. 
“My God! Listen to the way he’s roaring.” 

“He can’t get out,” the inspector said with an acid smile, 
“and will do you no harm.” 

“Come on, now,” the policeman remarked placidly, and 
Georgie followed him across a dark yard at the back of the 
building. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


It was very dark and bitterly cold in the cell where Georgie 
found herself, and an electric light over the door, that was 
turned on when she entered, showed her the narrow, dingy 
walls and a bare plank, which was to serve her as a seat or a 
bed, along the wall. Some blankets were thrown on it by a 
wardress, who undertook to search Georgie and stripped her 
of her small belongings. Her temper rose, and she felt her 
hands twitch to catch the woman by the shoulders and shake 
her until her gittering rows of false teeth dropped out. She 
seemed to regard Georgie with the utmost disfavour, and would 
not answer any questions she asked. 

At length Georgie was alone, and the darkness closed in upon 
her as she sat down to think steadily. She had stolen nothing, 
and therefore she believed that the magistrate would certainly 
free her in the morning, so she must force herself to leap across 
the dark gulf of the hours and consider what she should do 
once she walked out of the police courts and was free again. 

Like a dream stealing upon her out of the darkness, the 
thought of return came over her like balm. Ardclare became 
a haven of rest and refreshment, and the thought of Dada 
was merciful and spoke of peace. She had been beaten upon 
by the waves of this troublesome world so fiercely that she 
yearned most of all for calm, and thought longingly of her 
own land. 

It was maddening not to be able to write at once to Dada, 
but after all that mattered very little. If she sold a gold chain 
which had been her mother’s, and the little horse-shoe brooch 
which Clint had scorned, it would give her enough money to 
buy her ticket to Ardclare. 

She pushed her hair out of her eyes, and stared at the dim 
patch of light behind the grated window set high in the wall. 
A woman in a neighboring cell was singing a vile and obscene 
song in a shrill, screaming voice, so she covered her ears with 
her hands and went on thinking steadily. Failures, after all, 
were not the exception in Ireland, and even if the “carriage” 

282 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


283 

population of Ardclare combined to make her as unhappy as 
they could, there would be plenty of the humble folk who would 
be kind and glad to see her back again. 

Once she had made up her mind definitely, her spirits rose, 
and Georgie was almost happy in the dark sty where fate had 
set her. She was going back to Dada, whom, after John Lou- 
sada, she loved more dearly than any living being. She would 
find again the “fresh springs” in the drenched blue and gold 
country, and find green pastures and still waters in the silken 
quiet of the home she had known first and loved best. What 
did the police cells matter? It was part of a dreadful journey 
which brought you to a place of Heart’s Desire, and the magis- 
trate was only an official set up to punish offenders, and had no 
need to use his powers against such as Georgie Desmond. 

In a few hours, she told herself, she would leave England 
for ever, never to return. It was a hard, selfish country, where 
people had no love in their hearts, and where she had suffered 
intolerably. 

The cold grew more and more intense, and she wrapped the 
blankets over her knees and began to croon a little song just 
to cover the naked sordidness of the vile shrieking which con- 
tinued intermittently from the woman who was her neighbour. 

“Oh, the heart that has truly loved, never forgets 
But as truly loves on to the close.” 

The woman next door hammered on the wall with her boot. 
“Shut up, there, you slut,” she screamed. “None of your . . .” 
Georgie pulled the blankets up to her ears, fearful as she was 
as to their cleanliness, to drown the amazing torrent of abuse. 
The dawn came hideous and cold, and her hopes waned a little. 
The chances of life looked less golden, and fear touched her 
with icy fingers. Suppose that the magistrate were to make a 
mistake of any kind. What then? 

At a little after daybreak there was much jangling of keys, 
and the prisoners of the night were marshalled into a large 
room, at the end of which was a policeman sitting behind a desk. 
Georgie marched in with the rest, just behind the Bacchante, 
who had by no means recovered from her overnight excesses, 
and stumbled as she walked, tearing a rag from a filthy petti- 
coat. Georgie looked at the policeman and thought of him 
from an entirely new angle. He was not a comforting sight 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


284 

any more; he was terrifying. Great and consoling as an ally, 
he was indeed alarming as a strangely impersonal foe who 
regarded you as “a bad character.” There could not be much 
doubt about the others who bore her company, and she went up 
in her turn to give her name and age to be entered in a book. 

It was still very early, and the sun had only just begun to 
paint faint colours on the roofs of the houses and to touch the 
grey sky with crimson and gold when Georgie and her raffish 
associates were pushed into a prison van, which was something 
like an omnibus divided by a partition down the centre. The 
grimy and odorous darkness inside was indescribable, and even 
the. Bacchante was rendered silent by the noise it made bumping 
heavily down the streets. From time to time they stopped to 
pick up other women who had been in neighbouring police cells 
during the night, and drunken voices mingled one with another, 
as they all clung knee to knee in the strange fellowship of 
destitution. The darkness and the strong, piercing smell of 
unclean humanity together dulled Georgie’s senses, until the 
Bacchante, who had grown very quiet, created a diversion by 
becoming violently sick, and calling upon her God that she 
was dying. Her condition aroused considerable sympathy, and 
there was a moment of some excitement, the men prisoners on 
the further side of the partition shouting such suggestions 
and remarks as seemed either encouraging or humorous to 
them. A girl in a well-cut coat and wearing furs was the next 
arrival. She was shot in, almost into Georgie’s arms, and the 
heavily sweet scent she used was grateful in the stifling air of 
the van. But, to Georgie’s surprise, when the girl spoke, 
though her voice was refined, her selection of oaths and epi- 
thets was sufficiently astounding, even in that company, to at- 
tract notice. 

Having arrived at the police station, the van came to an 
abrupt standstill, and the doors were unlocked by a warder with 
a bunch of what looked like stage property keys, and again 
she followed in the strange company to a dark lavatory, where 
she was told she could wash her face. The girl in the good 
clothes, who was a handsome creature, and well aware of it, 
offered her a dab of powder which she had hidden in the corner 
of her crumpled handkerchief. 

“Keep your end up, and don’t let them bully you, dear,” she 
said, nodding at Georgie and putting the collar of her coat 
straight. “What are you in for?” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


285 

Georgie explained as best she could, and the girl, out of a 
long experience, seemed hopeful. “They usually let a first 
offender off,” she said. “I’ve been ‘wanted’ for some time. 
Not much chance for me.” 

Georgie’s spirits fell again as she took up her place on a 
crowded bench where already a sad row of people were sitting, 
many of them boys, and beside her a wretched-looking girl, not 
much more than a child, whose condition was pathetically and 
dreadfully clear. From time to time the doors at either end of 
the room opened a little and let out a constant and subdued 
noise of murmuring voices, rather as though a service was in 
progress. Around her sat the publicans and sinners, looking pal- 
lid and weary, and denying the fond belief that sin is easy and 
vice pleasant; and where, she asked herself, was Christ? They 
all needed Him very badly indeed, she herself as much as the 
others, to pass with His “sweepy garment, va§t and white,” 
and make them all clean and hopeful again. 

The inmates of the van were taking the situation in their 
own individual ways, sullenly, or treating the matter as a 
commonplace affair, too familiar to be regarded as dramatic 
or tragic, and from time to time they were called upon and 
disappeared through one or other of the doors, the Bacchante 
going off with an impudent swish of her dirty skirts, though 
she trembled when the policeman spoke to her and only pulled 
herself together with an effort. 

From having swelled double its size, Georgie’s heart shrank 
suddenly and sickeningly as she saw her policeman advance 
and make a sign to her. She tilted up her head defiantly, and 
told herself again that she had nothing to fear, and the bold, 
well-dressed girl gave her a parting nod of encouragement. 

The court was not a large one, and a crowd of people sat 
upon pews at the back. It had the effect of a church which 
had changed its mind at the last moment and turned itself 
into a cynical parody of a holy place, grim and alarming to 
the last degree. An elderly man sat behind a table with 
other elderly men beside him, facing the dock, and a small 
pulpit-like erection with a roof of dark cloth was the witness- 
box. The gloom of years and years seemed to hang about 
the place and create an atmosphere of dull despair, and Georgie 
walked forward and took her place behind the rails. Just as 
she had entered the court the policeman said in a discreet 
whisper: “Ask to be returned for trial,” but what he meant 


286 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


by this advice Georgie could not guess. All she wanted was to 
get done with the ugly farce and clear out of London, away 
from the misery of it all, but the sight of Angela Dubarry 
taking her place in the witness-box relighted the fire of her 
former anger, and she set her teeth and gripped the rails of 
the dock. 

Angela looked handsome and distinguished in her plain coat 
and skirt; her face was pale and her dark eyes mournful. She 
carried with her a suggestion of calm assurance, and Georgie 
wondered whether it was possible that her own tossed and 
tumbled appearance might not prejudice the magistrate. If jus- 
tice were a real thing, surely the fact of having no comb and 
not having had a bath ought to make no difference; but 
Georgie felt that the contrast between her and Angela was 
acute. What had the policeman whispered to her? Try as 
she would, she could not remember, and in any case all she 
wanted was freedom. 

Miss Dubarry stated her case with great detail and a free 
use of names of power. How they got into the story was little 
short of miraculous, but there they were. The magistrate was 
interested, and nodded his head at intervals, and at the end of 
the recital he looked at Georgie and asked her abruptly: “Do 
you wish to question the witness?” 

“Indeed, I do.” Georgie spoke breathlessly, her eyes blazing. 
“Why are you putting your hand to this?” she turned to An- 
gela. “What did I ever do to you that you should try and 
ruin me? I never took anything from your purse, and if I 
did wear your hat just once. Pm sorry I touched it. And the 
book of stamps you lost, you tried to make out that I took 
that, with everything else you’ve got against me. What are 
you doing it for? It’s a crying shame . . .” 

The magistrate interrupted her, and spoke in a dry, sharp 
voice. “You will have an opportunity of making a statement 
later. At present your only right is to question the witness. 
Do you wish to ask questions ?” 

“I was asking questions,” Georgie retorted angrily. 
‘Haven’t I a right to ask what she means by it all ? She’s been 
working against me since the day she first came to the flat. 
Isn’t it your place to see that I get justice ?” 

The magistrate lifted his shoulders very slightly and pushed 
out his under lip. He appeared to have come to some inward 
conclusion in regard to Georgie, and Mrs. Sandys took her 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


287 

place in the witness-box and began to give her evidence, but 
she bad only started when Georgie broke in desperately. “Mrs. 
Sandy s,” she implored, “you know that it’s not true. Speak 
for me to th’ old gentleman and tell him that I’ve done my 
best all along. If there’s justice in England, I ought to be 
let off.” 

Once more the magistrate asserted himself sharply. He 
was evidently annoyed, and Mrs. Sandys only looked down and 
kept silence until the storm had ceased. When she left the 
witness-box Georgie felt that her faith had crashed to the 
earth. The policeman followed her with a short statement, and 
then the magistrate addressed himself afresh to Georgie. She 
was a first offender, and, as such, should be leniently dealt 
with, he told her, but as he spoke a flood of feeling swept her, 
and she broke out again. 

“I’ve done nothing ” she said defiantly. “I’ll not be called 
an offender. Is it right to class me with people of bad conduct, 
and only because Miss Dubarry has lost her purse and hates the 
sight "of me ? It’s not fair, and I’m here to get justice. Is it 
just to call me a thief and then let me off only because you 
say it’s the first time?” She did not heed the attempts made 
to silence her. “If you take me out to shoot me I’ll hold to it. 
I’m as innocent as you are, and I look to you to say so.” 
Breathing hard, and with crimson cheeks, she stared around 
the court, and the magistrate examined the point of his pen. 

“Will you take your judgment now?” he asked, and Georgie 
looked at him again. She had not the remotest idea what he 
meant, and her longing to be free was uppermost. He had 
said she was a first offender and must be leniently dealt with, 
so it was best, perhaps, to let it go at that. She decided that, 
though he seemed cross and disagreeable, he looked a gentle- 
man, and that for the sake of liberty she had best submit with- 
out showing further fight. 

“I’ll take it now,” she said shortly, and he sat forward in his 
chair and fixed her with his cold grey eyes. “I consider that 
you are a woman of violent temper,” he said sternly, “and you 
yourself have referred to charges not made against you here, 
but which have been made by your employer and the lady in 
her house. On the evidence and on my own observation of you, 
I feel that a lesson is, in your case, highly necessary. Your 
sentence is a month’s imprisonment with hard labour.” 

Georgie looked blindly at the dim figures around her and 


288 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


then she drew a deep, hard breath and tilted up her chin. Not 
for the world, not for anything which could be offered to her, 
would she let them know that they had broken her down, and 
it was with no lessening of her defiance that she left the dock 
in charge of a warder. 


CHAPTER XXX 


Georgie was turning the handle of a mangle in a large room 
on the ground floor of Birdswell prison. On her arrival the 
high walls and the terrible stability of the place overcame her* 
and the awful echoing corridors, the obligato of jangling keys 
and the utter and desperate cleanliness of her surroundings 
seemed wholly incredible. Banishment was her portion, and 
her dreary cell was full of shadows which menaced her in 
some unholy way. 

Her companions in misfortune were a collection of the dregs 
of many slums, and looked like people who had escaped from 
a plague-stricken city. Many of them were tarnished beyond 
redemption, and had a strong jail odour about them. They 
had been mutinous or sulkily acquiescent as their temperaments 
dictated, and what good it would be to any of them to be 
locked up in a little room, and not allowed to speak, no one 
could tell. Punishment was the reason, perhaps, but when she 
looked at them all, Georgie recalled the comforting belief that 
God did not deal with people after their sins, nor reward them 
according to their iniquity. What was wrong with the world 
that she and these evil-smelling women were on their way to 
a common jail? 

All this woeful household, of which she now was to be a 
member, was composed of the flotsam of the streets. Drifting 
rubbish of the world ; idiotic and quite inconsequent wanderers 
who got themselves into prison just as they might get any- 
where that was bad for them. Prostitutes who seemed wholly 
without individuality, poor parasites who lacked sufficient char- 
acter to be criminals. They drifted along miserably, like fig- 
ments of a bad dream, piteous, fantastic beings, unable to help 
themselves, and now at the mercy of the legal remedy for dis- 
order and crime. It was almost ridiculously funny to think of 
the solemn warders, the regiments of officials and the great 
building itself kept going like a huge and hateful hotel, in 
which sinners who got convicted were lodged for various terms ; 
washed, fed and exercised, exhorted and preached to in the 

289 


290 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


prison church, and then turned out with less power than ever 
to resist the temptations of the streets. 

There was a card in Georgie’s cell with prayers printed upon 
it, and a Bible and a hymn-hook, so that she could be busied 
saving her soul as she brooded there alone, but no one took 
any account of the atmosphere of the place, or the tainted feel- 
ing it gave to be herded in with all the rest, even if your heart 
ached with sympathy for the lowest and least of them. 

To Georgie the whole proceeding was strange and intolerable, 
inexplicable, tragic — one of the mysteries of man’s blindness 
to the true relation in which he should stand towards his fel- 
low creatures. The chaplain regarded them all as, in general 
terms, given up to damnation. He had been embittered by 
disappointment, and Georgie felt silent when he visited her. 
She lived through eternities of solitude and silence, and her 
dread of something unknown filled her eyes with misery. What 
had the last inhabitant of her cell thought of through the 
hours? Had she repeated the prayers and read the Bible, or 
was it not more probable that she had let her fancies run riot, 
carrying her away to hell rather than remain in the dank, 
cold place where everything smelt of yellow soap and disin- 
fectants ? 

In the neighbouring cells the inmates often cried and 
screamed, and no one took any notice of them. It was part 
of the system. The matron came and exhorted her, telling her 
to amend her ways and go home to her own people or her 
fate would be too awful to contemplate. 

“You look a decent girl. Your head was clean and you keep 
yourself clean. Let this be a warning to you.” 

Georgie realised that a compliment was implied, and that not 
to have a “nitty head,” or worse, was a distinction of which 
she had reason to be proud, but it did not console her. Prison 
was a place where you needed to be a martyr, to stand it with- 
out suffering from its sickening infection, and Georgie had no 
great cause to uplift her soul. It was small consolation to 
her to think that she was there not for her own good — even 
the most hypocritical had ceased to urge that — but as a warn- 
ing to some girl she had never heard of and who might be about 
to start off upon a career of crime. 

As she worked in the laundry she found that the silence 
rule could be evaded easily enough. Dressed in a full cotton 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


291 


dress with a coarse apron and thick shoes, a starched quaker’s 
cap covering her soft brown hair, she looked as though she 
was wearing fancy dress, which was by no means unbecoming. 
Her companions included the girl who had offered her powder 
at the police court, and they turned the mangle together while 
Georgie listened to a low-voiced description of the life of a 
London prostitute. 

“Y’ought to give it up, and live decently,” Georgie said, 
clinging desperately to her principles. 

“What good did it do you to be straight?” the girl retorted. 
“Listen, I’ll tell you something . . .” And then a hot, thick 
whisper that made Georgie’s face flame. The world, the dense, 
overwhelming physical world, made its conquests so completely, 
and the rare, precious things of the spirit flickered away over 
the far horizon. Greed and sex rang their changes in the 
minds of the prisoners, and the narrow walls accentuated the 
power of both for untold evil. 

The recreation ground was a desolate strip of grass with a 
flagged path around it, where the imbeciles and the vicious 
paraded round and round for a certain time every day, watched 
by the wardresses, who looked very respectable, but knew of 
so many awful things behind their attitude of cynical calm. 
The machine of civilisation ground on in ghastly hopelessness, 
crushing out what poor, weak individuality the ciphers brought 
there with them when they came. They were caged animals, 
and for the most part they behaved as such, and the heart- 
breaking misery tightened its grasp through the slowly drag- 
ging weeks. Georgie could get no letters, for it was the prison 
rule that silence must surround her for a month, and in any 
case her letters, if there were any, were collecting the dust in 
the newsagent’s shop in Chelsea, waiting for her to come and 
call for them. 

“The day we get out,” the girl whispered to Georgie, for 
they had both got the same sentence, “I’ll take you back to my 
room in Marylebone Road and give you a start. You’d pick 
a fellow up at the station, as likely as not, for you’re not bad 
looking, and I want a pal.” 

“I’m going to drown meself,” Georgie said cheerfully. “I’m 
sick of life, and I’ll try a trip to heaven.” 

“Go on, don’t be a fool,” her companion replied quite ami- 
ably. “I’ll put you on to it. I know a fellow who’d like your 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


292 

style/' and she spoke of restaurants and flash jewellery with 
a rage of starved longing in her voice. 

At the end of the long month Georgie found herself outside 
the prison gates, dressed in her own clothes, and haunted by 
the feeling that she was afraid of the streets. The girl who 
called herself Pearl Havelock clung to her arm and tried to 
drag her ofl to a neighbouring public house for a drink, but 
Georgie made an excuse, and only escaped from the fierce 
friendliness of her fellow captive by promising to go to the 
house in Marylebone Road when she had got her belongings 
from the flat. The excuse was as good as any other, and at 
least got rid of Miss Havelock, whose main craving at that 
moment was for a tot of rum. 

“I intend having a tear to-night,” she said as she parted from 
Georgie at the street corner. “It’s owing to me for a month. 
Don’t you forget. I’ll stand by you and be your best friend, 
as I said I would.” 

It was a wild day, with a hurricane still blowing hard, and 
she drifted along like a leaf before the wind. Friendless and 
without money, she found her way to the newsagent’s shop, 
and the woman behind the counter looked at her suspiciously. 
She was an untidy woman, with pale eyes and a pointed nose. 

“There’s a couple of letters for you,” she said, handing them 
over the counter. “Where have you been? You look like a 
ghost.” 

“’Tisn’f more than I feel,” Georgie replied and the woman 
remarked inconsequently : “That’s right.” 

She grasped the letters in her hand and walked to the door. 
One was from Dada and one from Lousada. Even the en- 
velopes comforted her. 

“Awful storm,” the woman remarked, looking up from a 
paper spread before her on the counter. “Lives lost, too.” 

Georgie took no notice. She was feeling very tired and 
done, and wondered if she would read her letters in the shop 
or go and sit on a seat on the Embankment. It would be some 
distance to walk, and she hesitated, not having made up her 
mind. A month in prison had made the habit of decision 
difficult even in little things. 

“F ancy being blown overboard,” the woman went on. “There’s 
a piece here that tells you a lot about who they all were. 
One’s a commercial traveller on his way to France, James 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


293 

Wenman, aged 36, and there’s a titled lady, too. I expect 
they’ll have a photograph of her somewhere about.” She 
moved her finger down the list, and as Georgie was about to 
turn and go, she called to her. 

“Look at this,” she said excitedly, “here’s some feller with the 
same name as your own, Christian name and all, Eustace 
Cunningham Clint. He’s overboard with the others. I hope 
it’s no relation.” She was quite excited, and Georgie went 
back mechanically to the counter. 

“What’s that you’re telling me?” she asked. 

“That a feller named Eustace Clint was drowned yesterday 
afternoon. Swept off the Dover boat,” the newsagent’s wife 

said, pointing to the paper, “and I ’ope it’s not a relative ” 

She broke off quickly, as Georgie stumbled and leaned on the 
counter, a wave of vagueness sweeping over her. The news- 
agent’s wife was a kindly soul, and she came quickly round 
the counter and cleared a seat which was heaped up with piles 
of papers. 

“Sit there,” she said. “Sudden news takes the wind out of 
a body. I know it well, for a neighbour of mine saw ’er hus- 
band’s name in the casualty lists that very way. Oh, you 
pore dear, it’s not as bad as all that, is it?” 

Georgie recovered herself with difficulty, and took the paper 
in her hands, reading the printed announcement slowly over 
and over again. It told her that Eustace was dead, and the 
wretchedness of everything was too much for her. They had 
once been lovers, and there had been happy days for them in 
The Gleanings when first they were married, and now Eustace 
was dead, beaten upon by the swinging seas, and the whole 
story seemed just a broken, useless piece of inconsequent 
"fatality. In her mind she saw him clearly, with his regular 
features and heavy dark blue eyes. Why had it been, what 
was the good of any of it, and why had it ended like this ? She 
felt cold and sick. Eustace loved life and now he was dead, 
and since he was dead she knew that she was sorry for him and 
that she mourned the young man he had once been, and pitied 
the girl she once was. 

“It is my husband,” she said in a husky voice. 

“Think of that!” the newsagent’s wife said, not without sat- 
isfaction. But she was practical as well as inquisitive, and 
she felt pretty sure that the drowned man was Georgie’s hus- 
band, and wished to do more than offer sympathy. “Come in 


294 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


behind the shop and sit down to a cup of hot tea,” she said, 
taking her by the arm. “That and a good cry’ll do you good. 
Don’t keep it in, it’s a strain on the ’eart.” 

Georgie followed her silently and sat down at a table in a 
dark little room at the back of the shop. The idea of tea did 
comfort her, and after all, there was nowhere else to go. She 
was a widow now, and the word was such a strange one . . . 
beyond that she neither saw nor felt anything in particular. 

“Pore dear, pore dear,” the newsagent’s wife said, as she 
set out cups and saucers. “It did give you a turn. You 
were white enough before but you turned like death. It 
wasn’t right of me to read it out like that, but I never 
thought ” 

“I haven’t seen him very lately,” Georgie said, and she 
clasped the letters again. If she opened and read them it 
might dispel the numbed iciness of her brain, and she must 
make some plan at once. She was too ill and too distracted to 
face the streets and the search for a room; the explanations 
of herself and her lack of luggage or money. All she had was 
ten shillings, which had been in her purse the morning of 
the police court trial, and that wasn’t enough to buy con- 
fidence. 

“Read your letters,” the newsagent’s wife suggested. “Take 
your mind off the shock. A good hearty cry would be better 
for you than anything else.” 

Georgie raised her head and collected her thoughts again, 
and with hands which were not altogether steady opened Dada’a 
lefter first. Inside she found a five pound note pinned to the 
sheet of paper. The letter itself was short, and told her that 
he had been gravely troubled about her news, and that Lady 
Duncarrig had returned to Ardclare and had spread reports 
of a most distressing nature about the trouble between Georgie 
and Clint. 

“I am not a rich man, as you know,” he wrote, “but I can- 
not leave you in want, and your home is open to you if you 
feel that you wish to return. I have always done my best for 
you, my poor child, and you must come back if you cannot have 
a reconciliation with your husband.” 

To the surprise of the newsagent’s wife, Georgie pressed the 
letter to her lips. She had been forsaken so direly that her 
faith even in Dada’s goodness was not all it would once have 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 295 

been, and bad lie denied her the shelter of her old home, she 
would have bowed silently before his decision. 

“Isn’t he a lamb,” she said, speaking to herself, and again 
she pressed the letter to her face. 

“That’s right,” the newsagent’s wife remarked hopefully. 
“Now swallow some hot tea, like a sensible girl.” 

“You’re awfully kind,” Georgie said, and her voice shook. 
“I’d forgotten how kind people are.” 

“Read your other letter,” the woman said, nodding to her 
with a friendly smile. “Perhaps he parted from you lovingly. 
There’s heaps can feel when the end is coming, and it softens 
the ’eart.” 

Thus encouraged, Georgie opened Lousada’s letter, which was 
short and imperative. 

“I have left England in a rage, Georgie, and without so 
much as a sight of you on the platform. What happened to 
you that night ? I saw Clint as I came hack to the restaurant, 
and guessed at once that you, too, had seen him, and that it 
had frightened you away. I say to myself over and over again, 
f This cant go on.’ Even now, for all I know, you may he 
homeless and in need of friends. Because I love you, you say 
I must not help you, and in your cruelty to us hoth you remain 
in a position which is wretchedly insecure. Even now I can’t 
tell when I shall he hack, and I am dreadfully anxious about 
you. Georgie, I love you too well to do or say the least little 
thing which would hurt you or seem to demand anything in 
return, and it is your goodness that makes you so dear, your 
simpleness and courage. I have known many hrave men and 
a few women in my life, hut no one else with your pluck, and 
oh, my dear, my dear, I know that when anyone is very hrave 
they are always made to suffer ahominahly. You will think I 
am fussing ridiculously, and when you get this perhaps you 
may he still cooking that absurd Mrs. Sandys’s dinner — I won’t 
go on with this letter, hut I heg of you, out of pity, to let me 
hear from you and tell me that you give me a thought now 
and again.” 

The dark little room, the table with the tea-cups, and the 
newsagent’s wife, seemed to recede to an immeasurable distance, 
and Georgie leaned back in her chair. 

Had she known the lines — “After exceeding ill, a little good” 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


296 

— they might have occurred to her, hut she had read very little, 
and behind the ice and the snow, the dirty sordid memories of 
the prison, and the misery of her own experience, Georgie was 
lifting up her heart in a passion of prayer and praise; was 
lost in wonder at the beauty and goodness of life, and the 
mercies bestowed upon her so lavishly. Dad a was true to her, 
Miss White had sent “her dear love,” and John Lousada — John 
had written a wonderful letter out of his wonderful heart. Once 
more her own heart spread wings and mounted upwards. Clint 
had been kind when they parted, though he had hopelessly mis- 
understood everything, but at least they had not parted as foes. 

“You look a bit less like a corpse,” the newsagent’s wife re- 
marked. “Another cup of tea? It would be more natural for 
you to cry. A neighbour of mine couldn’t be got to cry for a 
week when ’er husband was killed under a train, until we took 
her to the pictures, and there she saw the very same thing 
’appen to a man on the film, and she broke down something 
awful.” 

“It’s very queer,” Georgie said, “I don’t want to cry now, 
somehow,” but even as she spoke the unexpected tears came, 
and she covered her face with her hands. 

“That’s right,” said the newsagent’s wife, and she did not 
guess that Georgie was crying, not because of her overwhelming 
misery, but because, somehow or other, she felt safe. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


Christmas had come again, and the church at Ardclare was 
decorated, but by fewer hands than of old. Miss White, Mil- 
son Rogers, Georgie and the sexton had done it all this time, 
because there was a general boycott out against the widow of 
Eustace Clint. 

Mr. Desmond was an, object of pity, and it was felt that 
though, humanly speaking, he could not well have refused to 
take his daughter in, he ought never to have had a daughter 
like Georgie. It was his misfortune, but misfortunes have 
sometimes to be regarded very much as faults by the critical. 
There is one great advantage in adversity, and that is that it 
shows us our friends, even if they are few, and Georgie had 
learned that the outside world matters very little unless you 
permit it to do so. Mrs. Francis Dykes, Mrs. Sharkey, and 
many others were able to indulge in the joy of making every- 
thing as much worse for her as they could, but immune from 
their fiery darts, she went her way unscathed. She had noth- 
ing to be ashamed of, and so long as Dada loved her and was 
glad to see her back she could bear the malice of her pretended 
friends with equanimity. 

And it seemed somehow that Dada did love her more than 
of old, though he spoke very little of Clint, and had never al- 
lowed her to tell him anything. Clint was dead, and that set 
a seal of silence upon the past. Miss White dressed up the 
whole affair to her own liking, and ignored the fact there had 
been any breach between Georgie and Eustace, and Milson 
Rogers never said a word to anyone on the subject. 

As far as things temporal were concerned, Georgie was en- 
tirely independent, as Clint had never altered his will; even 
though she stubbornly refused to take more than what had 
represented her dress allowance, she was free from the neces- 
sity of making any demands upon Dada’s slender purse. It 
was a relief of such magnitude that she was devotedly and 
even tearfully thankful for it as she reminded herself of her 

297 


298 A RECKLESS PURITAN 

many blessings in the little bare room where she had slept as 
a child. 

She had been close to terror and despair; she had seen deep 
into the darkness and brokenness of other people’s lives, and 
had known what it feels like to stand among the ruins of 
everything, in a wild and desolate place without a friend to 
help her: so that when one comes to consider it, it was not 
likely to matter much to her that Lady Duncarrig did not in- 
clude her in even her least distinguished gathering at Ard- 
clare. 

“Lady Dun had a down on me all along,” Georgie said, with 
a shrug of the shoulders, as she sat smoking a Woodbine in 
company with Milson Rogers. “Eirst and last she’s hated the 
sight of me, but I don’t reely care, Milson.” 

“Why would you?” he asked, with a glance at her. “There’s 
plenty who are different. I know one, who has cared for you 
a good while now, old girl.” 

“’Tis two years since we all decorated the church,” Georgie 
said, moving uneasily, “and Finney took the solo. Poor Finney, 
I’d like to see him back, but I’m told they’re very happy in 
Cork.” She knocked the ash off her cigarette and stirred the 
fire. “I never told you, Milson, that there was one friend I 
had all along — John Lousada.” 

“Ah?” Milson remarked, staring at the flames. 

“I met him at Ardclare,” Georgie went on. “He was awfully 
true, and though I never speak of what happened to me in 
London, I d’no how I’d have got through with it, if it wasn’t 
for him.” 

There was a long silence, and Milson did not look at Georgie, 
but without looking towards her he could really see the line 
of her profile; the little tilt of her nose and the wistful line 
of an eyebrow. She was warning him off, and he knew it. So 
all he did was to stretch out his hand and put it over hers, 
holding it firmly for a moment. 

“That’s all right, Georgie,” he said; “I s’pose he’ll likely 
come back one of these fine days?” 

“I think he will,” she replied, and once more they were silent 
until, upon the striking of a clock, Georgie jumped to her feet. 

“Come on, or we’ll be late for the practice,” she said, “and 
the choir need no end of a lot of training since all the quality 
left us in the lurch.” 

“Damn them,” Rogers remarked under his breath, and he 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


299 

stood, rather a dejected figure, in the centre of the Rectory 
drawing-room. 

Once more Georgie took her place at the organ and the small 
handful in the choir sang out loudly. They knew that only the 
school children and the poorer people who had no social status 
eat there now, and that Georgie was the reason; but Milson, 
who had no voice at all, was still there, and out of the shadows 
the remembered faces of the past clustered close to Georgie’s 
side. 

“For unto us a Son is bom,” they sang, because they had 
copies of the old anthem still, and it saved money and energy 
not to buy another to take its place. <r For unto us a Son is 
given. And the government shall be upon His shoul-ders.” 

Poor Finney, Georgie thought, how kindly he had been, and 
she remembered Clint walking up the chancel steps in his red 
coat, the very picture of a young girl’s dream of a lover. 
Dreams? What was the use of dreams, when reality had been 
so different? But at least that fragment had been charged 
with the wonderful passion of romance. 

“And His name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, the 
Mighty God, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace.” 

Georgie stopped and put her hands to her ears. “For good- 
ness’ sake keep the time. The whole of you is like a lot of 
turkeys who can’t never keep step. Three beats now, and com- 
mence all over again. Trebles first, on the note when I give 
it you.” 

Her own thoughts began again with the music. How oddly 
the semblance of things repeated itself. Here she was, play- 
ing the organ with the choir making havoc of the anthem just 
as before, and yet, between her and that other Christmas there 
stretched disillusion and realism so black that it was best never 
to think of it at all. Yet what comfort there was in the 
changelessness of things. To know that the mountains outside 
lay darkly against the dark sky, and that the windows of the 
church shone like a little corner of an illuminated missal in 
the night, just as they always had, and that the old storm sang 
thrumming in the telegraph wires and crashing through the 
trees. The very thought of it filled her eyes with a desire for 
streaming tears, so that she caught herself back to the urgency 
of the task, as once more the trebles broke loose and screamed 
high upon a false note. 

At length the practice was concluded, and the choir dis- 


300 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


persed, leaving Georgie alone in the church. The tea-party 
days were over finally, so that there was no one to wait with 
her, and she put away the music and hymn books, while the 
sexton began to extinguish the oil lamps which hung from the 
roof. She was going home presently, and she wondered if the 
post would have come, bringing her a letter from John Lou- 
sada. It was some time since she had heard from him, and 
his plans had been rather chaotic when he wrote. When the 
books were all put away she came down the aisle and wished 
the sexton the compliments of the season, to which he responded 
gruffly, because he was not an enthusiast at any time. 

“I’m foretelling a storm,” he said pessimistically. “A wet 
Christmas makes a fat churchyard. There’ll be plenty funerals 
this spring.” 

“You never know your luck, Thomas,” Georgie replied cheer- 
fully, as she pulled up the collar of her coat and went out into 
the wintry night. She felt a touch of depression come over 
her in one of those unaccountable waves of distress to which 
most of us are liable, and she wished that, for Dada’s sake, 
the Ardclare people could find it in their hearts to be a little 
more kind. They did not hurt her much at the worst of times, 
but steady hostility distressed Dada sorely, making him not un- 
frequently gloomy and even slightly cross. Sacrifice and death 
are fine things and can be met finely, but it takes a great deal 
of saintliness to stand still and be pinched, for months to- 
gether, and Georgie, though she had some humble touch of the 
heroic in her, was at times exasperated by too much pinching. 

She let herself into the house quietly, and stood for a mo- 
ment undecided whether or not to go to the study, where Dada 
was sure to be, or to go to the drawing-room, where the fire 
was still burning, and sit there alone, thinking her own 
thoughts; the temptation was strong, so strong that she opened 
the drawing-room door and went in. The room was in dark- 
ness except for the low light of the dancing flames, and by the 
fire she saw the dark outline of a man, who got up as she 
entered. For one second she thought it was Milson, who might 
have decided to desert “me grandmother” for once in a way 
and turned back to the Rectory to stay for supper. 

“It looks as though I’d beaten the post, Georgie,” Lousada 
said, standing where he was, and making the room do strange 
things to Georgie’s eyes, for it swayed about giddily and then 
became stationary again. 


A RECKLESS PURITAN 


301 


<r I did write to announce myself, but I gathered from an ex- 
tremely irritable lady who let me in, that I was not expected.” 

“ J obn !” she said in a queer, weak little voice. “Oh, my ! I 
suppose Jane was wild. She never does like strangers.” 

“Oh, my!” he echoed, “I think she does not, Georgie.” 

But even then neither of them moved, and the warm glow 
of the fire hardly lighted their faces, so that they stood in deep 
shadow. 

“The question isn’t so much what Jane thinks, is it?” he 
went on; “I’ve come a long way to wish you a happy Christ- 
mas.” 

“Indeed, yes,” Georgie said, and then he came suddenly to- 
wards her and held out his hands to her. 

“And a happy New Year.” He caught her into his arms. 
“Did you hear what I said to you, my girl?” 

In a muffled voice Georgie replied huskily : “Yes, indeed.” 


THE END 









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